










LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap.GZr$ Copyright No. 

ShelL-YliA£‘25’T 

^ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 





ft 

■A w ’’ 4 ’ . .i!ir * •"* ‘T? 8" ‘*H ' ' 

p' I ^ ^ ■^ ' -i-y -' 

r'- r'lt 

^ ■■ 

fiL'r'*" • *'* , . ■- 




' r'^ 


\ m Mk ' m. ^ 





L^ 


. 5 . 


“ IT- i*' 



B'"iM 


■M 








'™.,'.:^^ -.V ,.r ™;v • :.'^-^-^sr^ 'r-i'T .* 

. ■/'«- Tt-' •*■ V 

- *■ * * ■ -* V* 




SeU 


V 


1 


^ - 




% 




i ♦ ♦ 







rit^4; . - •4: 


^1 


<:■ 


A 
.• • 







% I 




•i.* *• 


* • 




4 




'•“W ' 




i 


•1 

( 


Throughout The Year 



BY 

MARY ELIZABETH WALSH 

»v 






Copyright 1896 

BY 

Mary Elizabeth Walsh 


PREFACE. 


Beloved friends, who, at my side, 

Have walked throughout the changing year. 

In whom, through days both bright and drear, 
I’ve learned to trust, whate’er betide; 

Whose hands have made rough places smooth. 
Whose brave, kind words have cheered me on. 
Whose arms were strong to lean upon. 

Whose love was quick to heal and soothe. 

This little book for you I’ve made; 

You’ll read, and reading, understand, 

(You’ve walked beside me hand in hand) 

And so I give it unafraid. 

For though its pages worthless prove 
To stranger eyes, ’twill not be so 
With you; old dreams will wake, I know. 
Sweet memories your hearts will move. 

And if some one of you will say, 

“Alas, that those dear days are lost. 

That Time has touched them with his frost’’ — 
And grieve that they have gone for aye: 

And if some word or line will lead 
Some one of you to say of me, 

“At least she loved us tenderly,” 

Of praise I shall have had my meed. 








>x"- 

i)?., ^ .v^ %W^ 



.\ ♦ i 


?'.fi> t ii 

V. • '.j * . 


^■5 4 ^ ■ . V*;^ 


<■< 


<• 



H -■ 

If y '■ ■*; • . x^, - , ■ 

*■.'». * -* ; I i* '■* * > * V It’ ' 

y -j " ■ ‘v^Ea. .. . 

't ' * >' ‘.'r V L-i ^ ■■",-■■' V 7 ^ V 


if-. ' • ■■'* '■^^7'" . 7-: ,«•,/>;•>■■.'• ,. - '"-’i 

‘ * • ' ' ^ r !i* . / 1- : 




• ♦» 


h _T\ 


$t 


• 4 


:ji 




r. 




w^ 



M- 'li. . '7,7^7 - > ^ ,. . 

V - ;-i-'.:-,rJf,-- 'y'''ifi- ■^. '■• • w‘, 

’O^-*.. .'-• Vt'M . ..:^ _;* 




I 


CONTENTS 


The New Year _ . _ g 

The Snow Storm - - , ly 

Philanthropy’s Dinner - - 23 

The Little Peddler - - 27 

Lent - - - - - 39. 

Music . . . _ ^3 

My Neighbor’s Boy - - _ 47 

Aunt Pollycarp’s Annual - - 53 

Her Dream of Freedom - - 59 

Our Visit to the Suburbs - - 67 

Our Journey to the Sea - - 75 

The Captain’s Story - - 91 

Their Golden Wedding - - 97 

Miss Betty and Miss Patty - 103 

Off for the Country - - - 113 

The House on the Hill - - 12 1 

Imogene’s Picnic - - - 129 

Liza . - - - 135 

The Summer is Over - - - 147 

Thanksgiving - - - 15 1 

Christmas Eve - - 155 



>V" ‘ f 



M-' 




2 > ri> ^ . 

-Vv-A 


r •‘t* ’'• ' .4 '^U - » 'I f , «&( 

- -i 

’ * - ' - 1 ' ■ . • * 





* . 


ft 





• ! -all- 'i. ■■ ' ■■ .''• ■ -V • 

* ■ :• ^ ‘ -/i •/ ■ ' - ..saofiE 


■«j‘ • ^ 

4 .v'^J ' y'’ ^ ^ - .. - ^'SILb^^^^I 

'.„?. m'.;'.. .,, V.>r.>- :. -' 

<V ’ t-' • ' • -• • ^ ' ,.*'*■!» A 

. , i ». *. i I.- .#Vt*i^. .iY ^Z ■» "j 1= 

'• *? * “■ •'■*■•■', - . - v-j ^' 

s '• i ■ -• ■*- •■■•^? ' c 

« **- . %• .IM 


>4i 


V 

A 

1 1 


> » 

•1 » 

: -i:- V '■. 

“■ ►*#. - 


■ 9 

:• ’• . 

^♦* 

I 

/ i.: - 

I 1 » * 

#*• 

1. 

-. * '9i,s 

4 . 


. -^1* ■ 

' -i 


■''< 

i 




t . 


« •> 



<* - " 


. r; ' ■ • >fc ' '■; ■ • :•' -,‘ r:,<. ■*^y’' ' > 4*?*fi* 

f. , ’•-V- . .;r-. .. ,i-.; *, - . J 


H 


• I • 

« 


4t ^3 q_ 

..>'^1, k* -XflM 

•H ^ ' ^ir - ^ , 




« 

■♦ ♦ 
\ . 




> j^- . y ' 


x * 

;3> ’ 


^ • ' ' T' "v- 

“ » ^ .A ■■ 





* ‘'■'A 'i-l'-'V'"'".'':'^; 


> . T- 






• 11 ^ J* 
'"V-* ' 


if 




« •< 







L- ,. . H ^' . • / ,>‘ 

. , fT* *■ ’ ■ •; V* 

^' ■' •, ., A 

^•' ► ’ f. ^u'" -g . : ■• •'<•■ 'f-' y-*^ 

r*. - - ^ ‘ w jp-' ^ ^ ^ /• • - . 

''■ ■ CSmt [■'» T‘ V . ■ : ■; . ■'i 




i ■:, ^ ••>*"■ • ■• . ^ 

- ■ ■. -> ^ •-- , 4 .^ , ' 

• •' • • • * *■ - 


V . 





ii 



t « 


-A . 


* "•* '* A' 

V T. * * \ -fJ -1^ I 







•^K 


‘ 



THE NEW YEAR 


HE New Year is upon the threshold. 
The old year, spent and weary, is 
bidding us farewell. I feel the 
pang of parting smite my heart. ‘ ‘ Stay, ’ ’ 
I cry, “Old Friend, you have been good to 
me and mine. You have walked beside us 
many days. The smiling boy who is to take 
your place is a stranger. We realize his power 
and we fear him. What if he rob us of our 
treasures?” 

Even as I speak the midnight chimes ring out, 
and the old year passes from our view. “New 
Year,” I say humbly, gazing at the young king 
who is to rule the world for a span, “disturb not 
our peace. We fain would dwell longer in the 
valley of content; fill our hearts and hands fuller 
yet from the plenitude of your bounty.” 

But he hears me not; my voice is drowned in 
the tumult without. The new year is receiving 



9 


lO 


a royal welcome. The bells ring joyously, the 
people shout in the streets. Already the old 
year is forgotten, as are the dead always. The 
living claim us; the living whose bounding pulses 
keep time with our own, whose throbbing hearts 
beat responsive to ours. Already I find myself 
smiling in response to the New Year’s joy. 
Princess Beauty stirs in her sleep; the tumult 
without reaches her even in dreamland. She 
draws the doll which lies beside her closer to her 
little bosom. 1 kiss her softly and breathe into 
her ear good wishes for the new year. She 
smiles, and perhaps dreams that a fairy god- 
mother touches her with her wand. 

Yesterday Princess Philanthropy walked forth, 
and behind her, at a respectful distance, walked 
a hireling. The hireling carried a bundle of 
generous proportions, and the bundle was com- 
posed of red flannel skirtvS, which dear Philan- 
thropy had made for needy women and children, 
and so I, being of a frugal turn of mind, call 
after her: “Divide the surplus among the 


gentlemen tramps.” She scorns to reply. Phil- 
anthropy is never frivolous. Yet, I would not 
be surprised if, while the New Year is yet in 
swaddlings, a hundred or so of the reduced 
sterner sex appear in the red skirts. Freezing 
Humanity cannot afford to be fastidious, and I 
think a sprinkling of conventional Highlanders 
would be picturesque. If they are seen flitting 
through the streets, giving a bit of color to the 
wintry landscape, know ye all that it is Princess 
Philanthropy’s work. 

The year is ten hours old, and I, determined 
upon a good beginning, am starting out with 
my entire family to church. We are dressed 
in our best. Philanthropy, with her dark green 
gown, and her great hat throwing a shadow over 
her thoughtful eyes, looks like an animated 
Christmas Card. Prince Knowledge, in his new 
box coat, walks beside her. Active follows 
with Generosity, who has reached that age 
when her clothes seem to shrink over night. 
Gentleness has Beauty’s hand, and is guiding 


12 


that little lady over the slippery places. Beauty 
is resplendent to-day in her new jacket and 
waving feathers, her curls frolicking in the 
breeze, a pink rose blowing on either cheek. I 
come last with Tiny and Winningways. 

I feel that I possess a family to be proud of, 
and the feeling grows npon me as we walk up 
the church aisle. Philanthropy, although her 
back is toward me, reads my thoughts and 
turns to give me a mild reproving glance. 

The day is as fair and sweet as a day in May. 
The whole world is flooded with yellow sunshine, 
and the bright rays stream through the stained 
glass windows, and throw fantastic bits of color 
over the devout faces of the congregation. 
Dignified Mrs. Bland has, seemingly, a blue 
nose, and a green ray has sadly transformed 
Mrs. Ruby’s blond hair. Even the preacher 
does not escape, and when he ascends the pulpit 
a bright red crescent fastens itself upon his 
cheek, giving him a very unclerical aspect. He, 
good man that he is, wrestles with his text. 


and exhorts us to put on the new man with the 
New Year, whereupon we all make up our 
minds to follow his advice. But alas! most of 
us permit the things of this world to choke the 
good seed. 

He tells us — we have heard it a hundred 
times — that for some of us this will be the last 
year in time. We know this to be true, but oh, 
it cannot apply to us. We are well and strong 
and full of hope. There is old Hobbs who sits 
opposite; he is poor, idle and forlorn. And 

Mrs. E , who has drunk deeply of the 

cup of sorrow, she looks spent and weary. 
They, no doubt, would welcome the grim mes- 
senger. We feel a little indignant with the 
preacher for thrusting such depressing truths 
upon us, and dampening our New Year joy. 
Who cares to start out feeling that this year may 
be his or her last ? Such thoughts are, perhaps, 
holy and wholesome, but away with them. 
We cease listening to the sermon and picture 
to ourselves a long, peaceful life, a happy old 


age. After life has given us all it has to give, 
then we will die. After we have eaten of the 
food, then we will willingly throw the empty 
husk aside, but we cannot die yet. When the 
preacher gets down from the pulpit, and the 
red crescent leaves his cheek and dances across 
to the tenor’s mustache, we strive to shake off 
the melancholy thoughts his discourse has 
awakened, and we join in the hymns with such 
unwonted vigor that the musical man who sits 
in front of us turns and gives us an indignant 
glance. 

We return from church in a very disorderly 
manner. 

Prince Active deserts the family at the church 
door and springs over the church fence. The 
younger members of the family make for an 
attractive slide, upon the slippery surface of 
which poor Winningways came to grief. Down 
on my knees I go to examine the bumped head 
and dry the poor eyes. And when, after a little 
difficulty, I regain an upright position, I find 


15 

no one but Generosity near. Princess Philan- 
thropy and Prince Knowledge are far up the 
street, and have evidently washed their hands 
of their family in distress. But Generosity, like 
the real princess that she is, brushes the snow 
from my disordered gown, picks up my muff 
and prayer book, which I had flung to the winds 
at Winningways’ first shriek, and helps me 
home with the woiinded member of my flock. 




THE SNOW STORM. 


was a chill gray day. The trees 
tossed their naked branches to and 
fro in a melancholy fashion, and the 
smoke from the chimneys had not the heart 
to mount to the sky, which hung low 
over the world, but tumbled off the roofs into 
the streets, and floated in ghost-like clouds 
before the people who were hurrying along, 
half hiding them from each other. The wagons 
rattled over the stone streets with a harsh, 
grating sound, and the sparrows, which usually 
are undaunted by wind and weather, seemed 
to have lost their cheerfulness and were mute 
and invisible, no doubt hiding in the eaves of 
the solemn- looking houses. Had the earth ever 
been green? Had the sun ever shone? Had 
the birds ever sung from pure joy up in the 
leafy tree- tops as they built their nests ? Perhaps 
so, once upon a time, but so long ago one 



17 


i8 


could not recall it that dreary day. The grass 
in the garden was a dull brown, and some of 
the dead flowers still stood upright like Egyptian 
mummies, dark and grewsome. The wind 
sighed in a down-hearted manner and seemed 
to be playing a mirthless hide and seek around 
the corners of the houses. A hard day for the 
sorrowful to live through, and even the joyful 
felt the shadow of the sad world upon their 
hearts. 

Presently out of the sky fluttered a few flakes 
of snow, but when they touched the hard earth 
they faded away from sheer fright and homesick- 
ness for their dwelling in the clouds. Then came 
other flakes, sturdier, braver of heart. These 
hid in the dead grass and in the frozen ruts in the 
road, and were presently joined by many of their 
companions. Down, faster and faster they came, 
dancing gleefully in the air, wheeling round and 
round, and then nestling down by their white 
companions on the earth. 

And, as the snow fell, a great change came 


19 


over the world. The trees were no longer naked 
and tossing in the wind, but were clothed with 
ermine robes which were hung about with strings 
of pearls and bedecked with diamonds. The 
seemingly dead blossoms had bloomed anew, and 
lifted up great white roses on their white stems. 
The houses were gloomy no longer, but glistened 
with decorations more beautiful than the costliest 
marble, and each chimney was surmounted by a 
glistening band of white. In front of each house 
was a white railing, which, like the trees, was 
bedecked with pearls and diamonds. Over the 
rough road, upon which the wagons groaned and 
rattled in the morning, was spread a coverlet of 
the softest velvet, and the horse’s feet and the 
wheels gave forth no sound. The world had 
grown strangely silent. 

At the window stood a sad-faced woman, and 
as she looked out at the falling snow, tears chased 
each other down her cheeks. She was thinking 
of a newly made grave out on the hillside, upon 
which, only yesterday, she had laid oh, how lov- 


20 


ingly! a wreath of white chrysanthemums — and 
now the cruel snow was burying her little boy 
deeper and deeper every moment. 

After a while the snow ceased to fall. The 
empty clouds scattered into fragments, and the 
blue heavens arched over the white earth. Then 
the sun shone upon the ermine clad trees, upon 
the velvet roadway, upon the bedecked houses, 
upon the white fences and the trimmed chimney 
tops, and upon the bushes bending beneath their 
snow roses. Whereupon, millions of gems, not 
seen before, blinked and glistened and sparkled 
in their w^hite setting. 

The children just out of school shouted with 
joy when they saw all these wonderful things, 
and they covered each other with snow until they 
became white figures in a white world. The 
gloom of the morning had all disappeared, hidden 
under the beautiful mantle which God had sent 
straight from Heaven to cover the cold bosom of 
the earth which had been stripped of her summer 
garb and left shivering in the November wind. 


21 

The sad woman at the window dried her tears 
and looked hopefully up to the smiling sky. 
After all, her child was not beneath the earth and 
snow, but somewhere above it all, folded close to 
the Master’s bosom. 



. t :v.v- - : 




'w. vr 




*• *> • • -^t . 

I ' ■ 3 - - i 

V ' r •f2 j t J 


, » -• 



-r ■'>"*.-}^ . 

< •* . 'r. 'J*]- 

> it ^ At. - A> ^ 


♦ I : - 

0 «'' ‘ * 


\ . 





:'. :v •■.'■» ' V’ ^ '‘.V ■ f-: 

y it: ' f * ^ '. " V 

^ . ri **‘i*"\> “->■ ^ * - + -’V,^ 

.• ^4 . ^. . . • , r” _ r . 



_ Jfc .'’—■* 


- 't 


» • . * 


» #“ 4 


r» 


* 

0 


* ■ t ',* 







r^, t* 


.4 


=v, '■^N;..,^• 




^ ■« 




:fti/ 








J*'J 


I > 


% 


> ♦ f 


'• « 




*; 

-•'a 



i>‘ ■ 

*. - • 

"t 

m • 



# 

V , 




_ -«p 


r: '^9 

"4 ' 

• 

tt 


» • 




.. , « 

•I A* ♦ 






'. . V . . ;-^ -"> : •' -• ■ .-'1 

■‘ '■* •:■■• . =- ' ■-- - ' V ‘ * ■ - * 





m 

• ,♦ -4 

X-. r- 

‘■>.V 
#■ . 

.4^ ' k « * 

'i / • 

W- 

' '^‘•, _!» * 

>• A. 

4 , ^ » X ■ 


•■* * • 

-. *• - 

- 1 • ‘ 

*’ 


>v* 




r*?^- 


^ . 


> s<b*S 


!»• 

f» 




*S 1 ^ i. ^ 

, t*''^ 





A" 


,.„ *v.v-^’ ■♦;-*• Vi - - ■»>%, 


♦ ' .'j*'' *» ) jft ■ t 

■*-*'K?I •» . 

. ' .- -y '.-s'sr, ;y; 


*r 


« * 
' V 


. ^r 


. • 







PHILANTHROPY’S DINNER. 


NE morning last week Princess Phil- 
anthropy came to my room earlier 
than is her habit, for my lady dearly 
loves her morning nap. She was dressed for a 
walk; up to her very ears in fur, a sprig of 
holly pinned on her breast. But she evidently 
had something of importance to say to me before 
starting out in the bracing winter sunshine. 
“ Mamma,” she began gently, but with that 
little determined air with which I am familiar, 
and before which I fall as might a house made 
of cards fall before a hurricane, “I must give 
a dinner. I have been invited out so often, and 
I am under many obligations to Mignonne, and 
indeed, to every one of my friends, for that 
matter. ’ ’ 

When Philanthropy entered the room I was 
taking the first crimping pin out of my hair. 
Before I had taken out the second pin, she had 



23 


24 

succeeded in making me feel that I have been 
somewhat shabby not to have suggested the idea, 
and when the pins are all out, I am positively 
thanking her for making my social duties clear to 
me. So the princess trips off, well satisfied. 

We decide later on the all-important matter as 
to who is to take in whom, and then the less im- 
portant, as to what they are to eat when they get 
in. 

Princess Philanthropy writes the invitations^ — 
in my name of course — as my writing is too sug- 
gestive of the pot-hooks of yore to suit the 
present age. 

When the night comes and twelve happy faces, 
beautiful with the incomparable beauty of youth, 
are gathered around the board, I am more than 
repaid for any trouble the event may have occa- 
sioned. In the middle of the round table we 
have placed a shining wreath of holly, and the 
red berries glisten in the candle light, for I insist 
upon candle light upon such occasions. I cannot 
turn upon the faces of my guests the electric 


25 

search light, nor illumine their countenances with 
the unbecoming gas. Not that it would matter 
in the present instance, for these fair young faces 
are free from the lines of care, but occasionally 
we dine charming men and women who have 
outgrown their youth, physically — the heart is 
always young, the poet tells us — and in the 
candle light we make believe we are still in the 
springtime of life. The horrid crow’s feet are 
invisible, and the lines Time writes upon our 
brow cannot be seen. At Philanthropy’s dinner 
the young faces glow as did their grandmother’s, 
in the mellow candlelight. 

Philanthropy and Knowledge are the only 
members of the family who dine with the 
guests. The other children and I dined on 
cold ham and tea in the butler’s pantry at five. 
I sit in the hall where I can catch a glimpse of 
the men and maidens through the curtained 
doorway, and listen to the music of their fresh 
young voices. I see Prince Knowledge, playing 
the part of the genial host. On either side of 


26 


him sit Mignoiine and sweet Imogene. The 
former has, I notice, a white chrysanthemum in 
her fair hair, and its companion is pinned to 
Ralph's coat; he sits at her right. Opposite 
Knowledge is Philanthropy, radiant in white 
and gold. My view is somewhat intercepted 
by Tiny and Winningways, who are anxiously 
peeping into the dining-room, wondering if 
there will be any good things left. Ham and 
tea leave much to be desired. Over the door 
I see something glistening, which, upon in- 
spection, proves to be mistletoe. Beauty vol- 
unteers the information that Philanthropy hung 
it there. Is it possible! So different from what 
one might expect, remembering the flannel 
skirts. Verily, the human heart is a complex 
organ. 


THE LITTLE PEDDLER 


ENTLENESS called my attention to 
him. I thought he was begging, 
for the little basket on his arm looked 
so shabby, and he himself looked so woefully 
poor. I said something to him about going to 
the basement door and getting some food if 
he was hungry, but when I glanced at his face 
I saw my mistake — he looked so hurt, so mis- 
understood. “I am not a beggar, ma’am,” he 
said gently, but with a certain dignity; “I’m 
in business.” And he pointed to his basket to 
verify his words. I felt sorry for my blunder, 
and gave him a dime and hurried into the house, 
for it was a bitterly cold day. But somehow 
I could not get him out of 1113" mind all afternoon. 
I saw him in the pages of the book I tried to 
read, and his face, with the delicate blush that 
covered it when I mistook him for a beggar, 
came between me and every occupation I 



27 



28 


attempted. I remember that he had no overcoat, 
and no mittens on his purple hands, and I had 
not even asked him his name nor where he lived. 
If he would only come again. Finally I called 
the servant who had opened the door for him. 
“Yes,” she said in answer to my inquiries, “he 
had been here several times before, but she 
did not think I would care for the things he 
had to sell, and so had always dismissed him.” 
“Let me know if he calls again,” I said, and 
with that I was obliged to be content. 

Several weeks after this Beauty saw him 
come down the street with his brisk, energetic 
step; he glanced up at my door, hesitated a 
moment, and then, no doubt remembering, past 
experiences, was about to pass by, when she 
knocked at the window and called him in. How 
glad I was to see him, and as I looked into 
his bright, manly face, I wondered how I had 
ever taken him for a beggar. It w^as the basket 
that had misled me, for I noticed that it was 
covered with a dingy brown oilcloth, which 


29 

gave it a weather-beaten appearance, but which, 
no doubt, added to its durability and protected 
the ‘ ‘stock. ’ ’ The ‘ ‘stock ! ” No merchant 
prince was prouder than was this lad as he 
displayed before me, much to Winningways’ 
delight, the contents of the basket. Buttons, 
shoestrings, tape, matches, hooks and eyes, and 
all the cheapest of their kind. “You see,” 
he said,' “me and my brother support the family. 
Father died a year ago and we wouldn’t let 
mother w^ork, so we decided to go into business; 
and the business has grown considerable,” he 
added with pride. “Is your brother older than 
you?” I asked. “Yes ma’am, he’s a little older; 
you see we’re twins, and you couldn’t tell us 
apart,” he added in such an exultant tone 
that one would think to have a duplicate was 
to reach the acme of bliss. “Mother can tell 
us apart; she’s awful clever about everything. 
She makes our clothes and mends ’em,” he 
added, glancing at his much-mended little jacket. 

By degrees I learned the whole story. The 


3 ° 

father died and left the wife and six children 
unprovided for — four little girls and twin boys 
ten years old. It was then that the brave lads 
determined that Mother should never work, 
and so they gave up school and went into 
business, and by trudging all day and every day 
from door to door, with their baskets filled with 
their cheap stock, they managed to keep the 
little family from want. “We go to night 
school,” he said, “because you must get an 
education to carry on the business.” Poor 
little fellow. No time had he for rest or play; 
no wonder he was thin and pale, and great 
circles were drawn under his dark eyes. After 
we had made some purchases, and diminished 
his stock and increased his cash on hand, and 
found a dress and a doll and a bonnet of Beauty’s 
for the little girls at home, he repacked his 
stock, which he had spread over the floor for 
my inspection, and he trudged off, highly 
pleased. 

From this time forth he called every few 


31 


weeks and I gave him a contract to supply the 
household with matches and bone buttons, 
although the housemaid complained that she 
could not light the former, and the latter had 
an awkard fashion of falling in two, if anything 
at all was expected of them. Once I found 
when I returned from town that he had called 
and left three lead pencils as gifts for the 
children. “You cannot afford to make presents, ’ ’ 
I said to him the next time I saw him. “Oh, 
yes I can,” he said “a lady gave me three cents 
for nothing, and so I could give away three 
cents’ worth.” A generous heart throbbed 
beneath his threadbare jacket, “kots of men 
who are rich now started in this business,” he 
said one day, and mentioned several well-known 
millionaires as examples. “And lots of other 
men were poor when they were boys, and they 
wouldn’t let their mothers work, and you see 
Mother’s not as strong as some, and when we 
increase the business, we’re going to buy her 
a silk dress, and then we will buy her a little 


32 

home with a garden and chickens and flowers, 
and after the business has grown wonderful, 
we may, (here his voice sank to an awed 
whisper) get her a little carriage with a white 
pony.” It was all for Mother, no thought of 
himself; no desire for new clothes, or money 
to spend for selfish pleasures, but the business 
was carried on to keep Mother from working, 
and with the hope of giving her the comforts 
of life. 

Sometimes he and his brother visited the 
country towns, he told me, where their stock 
was highly appreciated. On such occasions 
they would be gone several days, and he often 
told me of his mother’s joy when they were 
safely home again. She always gave them an 
extra supper on such occasions, and the little 
girls were permitted to sit up an hour later 
than usual. Once his brother fell ill, and 
upon my little friend’s slender shoulders was 
laid the double burden, but he bore it cheer- 
fully. “You see,” he said, “such things will 


33 

happen when one is in business; partners will 
get sick sometimes.” I had given him an 
overcoat and some warm gloves, which Active 
had outgrown, but I noticed soon after this 
that he did not wear the coat, and that his 
hands had gone back to their semi-frozen con- 
dition. When I asked him what had become 
of his coat and gloves, he said that he had 
felt uncomfortably warm in them and had 
given them to his brother, who was just about 
again. “I don’t need them,” he said bravely, 
“a fellow gets terrible tough when he’s in 
business.” But he did not look very tough 
in spite of his words. 

1 told him one day that I was going away 
for a few weeks, but during my absence he 
must continue to furnish the family with 
matches and buttons, and he must be sure to 
come to see me when I got home. I promivSed 
to buy him a story book about a little boy 
who had been in business as young as he, 
and grew up to be a rich man. When I 


34 


returned from my visit I learned from Philan- 
thropy that the little fellow had not called 
during my absence, and our supply of matches 
and bone buttons was very low. As the days 
and weeks passed and he did not come, I 
began to grow anxious and determined to 
look him up. But when Philanthropy and I 
succeeded in finding the isolated little house 
in which he had lived, I saw a sign “To 
Let” tacked upon the shabby door, and the 
house itself was empty and desolate. 

There was nothing to be done now but to 
watch and wait. And at last, one day, when 
I had well nigh given up hope, he came — my 
poor little boy. As soon as I saw him I 
knew that something had happened which had 
crushed the joy and ambition out of his young 
heart. Around his shabby little hat some one, 
himself probably, had pinned a narrow band 
of black, and the attempt at mourning would 
have been ludicrous had it not been pathetic. 

I thought that his brother had perhaps had 


35 

a relapse, in spite of the overcoat and gloves, 
and had gone out of business permanently, 
leaving the junior partner to carry it on 
alone. But it was worse than this, much 
worse — his mother had died. He could not 
tell me all at once, but by degrees, between 
his sobs, I learned the sad storj^ They had 
returned from an unusually successful country 
trip, and had found her ill, and before they 
realized there was danger, she had died, and 
the little home was broken up. The little 
sisters were put to live with a hundred or 
two other orphans, and the two brothers were 
at a miserably cheap boarding-house. 

“We felt at first as if we could not go on 
with the business,” he said sorrowfully, 

‘ ‘ there seemed to be no one to work for 
when she left us, and she never even had the 

silk dress, and the little home ,” but 

he could not finish the sentence. I tried to 
comfort him as best I could. I told him to 
think of the little sisters, and to keep up the 


3 ^ 

business for their sakes, and that some day 
he could have the little home, and they would 
take care of it for him, but he would not be 
consoled; he grieved after the hopeless fashion 
of childhood. It is when we grow older that 
we remember the silver lining to the clouds. 

I promised to see the little sisters, who 
he said were sad and lonely without their 
mother, and he promised to try to be brave 
and patient, as his mother would have wished 
him to be, and he started off upon his weary 
round. I watched him from the window, but 
his step was slow and his face was sad. 
Evidently he spoke the truth — he had no 
heart in the business. 

If you meet him 3’ou will know him by his 
basket, which is covered with oilcloth, and by 
his shabby but well brushed clothes, by his 
manl> face and his beautiful eyes, and his sad, 
tremulous mouth. Stop, if you can spare the 
lime, and say a few kind words to him; buy 
some trifle from him to encourage him, for his 


37 


child’s heart is heavy, and his child’s feet are 
walking over a hard, rough road. He had lost 
his mother, and has no heart in the business. 


I 


* \ 





» 


•J 




• m 

» 

•*' 


> 

A 


• » 


K 


« 




A 


*» 




I 











5 


t 


4 


K. 


t 






* 




( 



» 






/ 


\ 


4 


4 





I 

t 


r 


^ t • « 




# 




« 




•. 


■ 


» 


j 





I 


t 



% 


« 




4 

.-*■ f 



>■ 




i ■ 


■ > 



V. 








1 ^ 


« 


,« 








b 


t 



» 




• t 


f 


h 


» ' 


i 


■ *1 







» 



« 



f 


LENT. 


HE days are growing longer, and now 
and then there is a breath of spring 
in the air. Will we ever grow too 
old to rejoice in the spring ? When the first 
tender shoots pierce the earth, and the buds 
on the trees swell, and the bluebirds sing, 
we seem to be born again into a fresh, new 
world, and the old world, with its frost and 
ice and bitter cold, is forgotten, or remem- 
bered but as a dream, which melts and fades 
away when the day dawns. We have no real 
signs of spring yet, for it snowed yesterday, 
but a hint, a promise of what is to come, an 
assurance that all is well. Mother Nature is 
faithful to her trust. She holds in her 
bosom the tender young things that would 
die should the cold reach them, and when the 
brown earth grows warm beneath the sun’s 
rays, and moist with the soft rain, she bids 



39 


40 


them stretch their tiny necks and look around 
upon the world, the beautiful world, about 
which she whispered to them oftentimes during 
the long night that is past. 

Lent has come. In the midst of our gaiety, 
at the height of it even, while the ball-room 
was filled with dancers, and the music throbbed 
and sighed, and the young laughed gaily, and 
the old laughed (but not gaily), while the 
wine flowed, and the banquet was spread ready 
for the feasters. Lent parted the curtains at 
the doorway and looked in upon the scene 
with her calm, cold eyes. One glance at her 
pale face, worn with fasting, and the dancers 
fled. She lifted her thin hand and the music 
was silent, and the laughter changed to sighs. 
Put out the lights, crush the flowers; put by 
all things that speak of mirth and festivity, 
anoint your brow with ashes, and consider 
well the fact, ghastly, overwhelming, but indis- 
putably, horribly true, that “thou art but 
dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.’’ 


41 


Alas, poor man! The spring brings back 
the flowers that bloomed last year, the trees 
that were seemingly dead are alive again, but 
the friend that fell asleep still sleeps on, he 
wakes not when the year awakens. He is 
dead, though Nature, clad in the beauty and 
vigor of youth, defies death. Faith tells us 
that these mortals will rise again as do the 
flowers, when God’s angels herald an eternal 
spring. 

Princess Philanthropy has folded away her 
dainty gowns of rose and blue and white, and 
donned a sombre garb, suitable for this season 
of penance, and not unbecoming to the fair 
penitent. 

She and Mignonne are at church now, no 
doubt, lifting up their pure young hearts to 
Heaven; they repent who have not sinned. 
No doubt the Recording Angel will place to 
the credit of some less fortunate mortal their 
devout prayers. 



, ■; v ' - ' ^ 

]i-iyl . G^-V' ■&"_, ./y-^-. 

, ■ ■ -4 . -' « , ■ • • 

I . . j . • • ■-if ^ 



► » i^ijnk A* !VlC^ ^ 

• - ' •■ •:■ ' • 
ir ■ ' ‘.A- 'rsA -A-i- - • ■ .*•'.»•■- ^ 

N' . . , ' ■ • 



KB- V L,' t - 'V ^' .-■ ^ • V-':- 

J’ ^ ' ■«. '_-.>•/ • r* * ‘’^’* ■ . ’■» 









' » • • - ' • ' • 
'V- /■ 


A 


' •«. 


. * -* •• 

*- %L.*i -'*■ • 


l»H, 


; i 


• r 


^ ' • • 2 ' , ^ ' f > • ' 

^ ■♦ ,' '■^•* *•’> * * ' » 

-^-‘■%*:-v-; .,• . " 'iv:' ?.'..v.';y^ 

f- ' L«, V ■•%• •-■.» *_Kj 

2 - • * V • a ^ * *ii»‘ -^^Sri ^ 

■'/V :-'--i :r^ 

A ' 4. . #’* 'u • f . MB * 

^ * *. ^■>. »• . •; ■% 'V* ^' • ■• *- KJEH W 1 

^-:« >;■ '■“ , ■;' •* =sg|w=- ^ 

H-- -rv.'kv, v.f^ ' ' 

M 

,> /■ • 

^ 3 

” • ■ ‘JT , • . 4? . ► 

i. . ■ '-,V’ ■' V 


:^1 .# 







U • V-V.W I'. 

^*3 









i* w"# j» 


m\\ 






>. 


*. ;• 




.-r 


• I 


’ /si. • 





, -r ' 

•- t ■ 




.'f ’ 'fc 



• - • • ^ 

A 







•'■ *W.. •'-. .*' - • ■ --*-:•■■■■ 


ir 




«■ > 




.9 


I ' > . * 



I- 



<^- 


-* * ■f 


1^ 

r^/ 


» # ' ^ ‘ 
$ 


4 ^. J 







I - 


■ ; y .^-,. ^- 4 ^. ‘. y\ ^ 

y . ■ * ■; , -' 2 ;:'' :•■ •■ .v , ■ • 


• 4 





ti'i .¥ £.7 A' 






** ■ . 




MUSIC. 



HAT wonderful vStrides the world has 
made in music during the last 
twenty years! I do not mean the 
artistic world, but the everyday world — you 
and I and the people next door. It seems but 
yesterday that I was struggling through “ War- 
blings at Eve ’ ’ and ‘ ‘ Monastery Bells ’ ’ before 
an admiring circle of friends. 

I thought of those times, which seem but 
as yesterday, but which in reality are far back 
in the past, while listening to Mignonne play- 
ing this afternoon. Philanthropy had asked 
for Liszt’s “Polonaise,” and I could fancy the 
manner in which Mignonne’s little nose would 
go up should I unearth my old music book. 

Mignonne plays well, even for this enlight- 
ened age. When one has listened to her, the 
average every-day player grates on one’s nerves. 
Mignonne’s touch is never harsh, is never 


43 



44 


weak, but is as clear and sweet as the lark’s 
song. What a gift the child has! And as she 
played, Ralph leaning over her, and Raymond 
watching her white fingers from across the 
room, I thought of another gift she possesses, 
which is a dangerous one for a woman to hold, 
the power to win hearts. Mignonne has but 
one heart to give, and can accept but one in 
return. What will she do with the others 
which have been laid at her feet, I wonder? 
Be careful, Mignonne, Cupid’s wounds generally 
heal and leave no scar to speak of, but now 
and then he makes one so deep it bleeds to 
the end of life. 

In the meantime she played on and on. 
Now it is the “Pilgrim’s Chorus,’’ now a 
minuet that brings before us the graceful 
dames of another age, now a tender ballad in 
which love answers love, now a Christmas 
hymn — we see the manger at Bethlehem, the 
wise men, the mother, the Child. 

The room is dark, but Mignonne heeds it 


45 

not; nor do we. We are in another clime, 
another world. We hear the nightingale, we 
smell the orange blossoms. We step upon a 
silver ship; the sails fill; we are off, and 
probably would be sailing yet had not the 
maid just then brought in the lamps and 
announced dinner. 

The organ-grinder is abroad. It is early for 
him. Generally he is mute during the winter 
months, and no doubt lives in some garret and 
eats up his summer earnings. In the spring 
he comes out of his retirement, his instrument 
freshly varnished, and renewed vigor in his 
strong right arm. But these are hard times 
and the profits of the summer were small, so 
he has, no doubt, been obliged to stay out all 
winter. He shows the havoc exposure has 
made upon him, and the organ seems to have 
felt it also, for I noticed to-day when he 
played “Annie Roonie” beneath my window 
that the upper notes were hoarse and wheezy, 
and some were no louder than a whisper. He 


46 

looked so disconsolate that I, remembering the 
“Carnival of Venice” days, felt my heart 
soften toward him, and threw him a few 
nickels to cheer his lot. The nickels were 
not mine. I was out of change at the time. 
Princess Generosity shook them out of her 
little tin bank. Many times a day does the 
princess shake this little bank for shivery old 
age, half-clad children — no one calls in vain 
upon her, and, strange to relate, the little 
bank never grows empty. Gentleness says the 
fairies fill it at night. Who knows? Perhaps 
they do. The organ-grinder touches his hat 
and moves on, limping as he goes. Poor 
fellow, hpw he must sigh for the sunshine of 
his native land. ‘ ‘ Come away from the win- 
dow, mamma,” Philanthropy says, “you look 
so disconsolate you make me shiver.” And, 
evidently thinking I need to be refreshed, she 
rings for tea. 


MY NEIGHBOR’S BOY. 


O-DAY my friend, who lives not far 
away from me on another street, is 
stricken with grief. Yesterday she 
watched her boy run out to play in the winter 
sunshine. She put on the scarlet mittens and 
tied the little tippet around his neck. He kissed 
her when he left in his warm, impulsive, boyish 
fashion; she watched him from the window for 
a few moments, then turned to pick up the 
trifles he had scattered around the room, trifles 
dear to her because of their owner; how 
many times a day had she stooped to pick 
up the same things. A ball, a top, a knife, 
a little handkerchief, but she never wearied; 
of such tasks is a mother’s life made up. 
She made the room neat and bright and warm 
against her darling’s return. In fancy she 
could see the mittens drying before the fire, 
as they were nightly, and she could hear in 



47 


48 


fancy the thrilling account of the snow-ball 
fight. In fa7icy she saw and heard these 
things, in fancy only, for, God help her! she 
was never to hear them in reality again. 

The day grew late; the dusk deepened. 
She arose to go to the window to watch for 
her boy’s coming; ere she reaches it, she 
hears footsteps in the hall — eager, hurried 
footsteps, the door opens — a stranger stands 
there, pale, aglcated. He tells her that some- 
thing has ha i pened to her boy. For one 
moment her heart leaps to her throat with 
terror, but she is brave, and will not falter 
now, when her child is hurt and needs her. 
Besides, she assures herself, it is nothing; he has 
been hurt often before in his play, and moth- 
er’s kiss has cured him — it will be so this 
time. Behind the messenger a man comes 
bearing a burden in his arms; her child has 
been run over. She is brave still even when 
she hears this. No doubt he is stunned; a 
limb broken, perhaps, and she takes him in 


49 

her arms and even tries to smile in the little 
white face. There is no answering smile, 
although the blue eyes are wide open and, 
seemingly, looking into hers. She kisses the 
mute lips; she puts her hand over the dear 
heart; she calls him by name, over and over 
again; he takes no heed. Alas, poor mother, 
your son is dead. 

If he were only alive. No matter how 
desperately, cruelly wounded, there would still 
be hope, and love and skill might coax him 
back to health — but no, love counts for naught, 
skill is useless. Nothing can be done for him 
but to dress him in his grave clothes and 
hide him away in the earth, which claims all 
flesh, sooner or later. The mother holds him 
close to her broken heart. She cannot grasp 
the cruel truth at first. He left her well, 
happy, full of boyish fun, for an hour’s play. 
Why, it was only this morning that she chided 
him for something ! Only this morning ! and 
it is not evening, and he is dead. 


so 

They tell her afterwards how it happened. 
The coachman (enveloped in his furs, speed- 
ing the spirited horses, so that the fair occu- 
pant of the carriage might be in time for 
the brilliant social function) did not see the 
little form start to run across the street, did 
not see it until the life which animated it had 
been cruelly crushed out forever. Tender 
hands bore him to his home — the home he had 
left so joyously but an hour before. 

Beauty and Gentleness are grieved and awed 
at the sad fate of their little friend, and they 
have taken a bunch of white roses to lay 
upon his coffin. It is all that we can do to-day; 
to-morrow we can do still less — stand by his 
grave and weep, not for him, for he has won 
his crown early and easily, but for the mother 
who sits in her darkened home, and weeps 
for the little boy who kissed her and ran out 
to play, and was brought back to her, dead. 
If she had but known that that kiss was the 
last he would ever give her! A merciful 


51 

Father hides from us the knowledge of the 
things to come. But this He tells us; that 
in His mansions — if we love Him — we shall 
meet again those we have lost, and some day, 
poor mother, your little lad will kiss you 
again. 


/ w 







mm 









<t » r 




\r^ 
i •» 


V 




V r 


v-% 


i* . 


1 ** 


I • 

» 







^ r 


^ 7^ I * 
L *1 


• . V 




.^1 








»« 


. V.. 10 

?-*■ T 

I 


• 1 

w 


t - 

» 

»r 


■ ' 

« « 

r 


L ■ • 






» ^ 

A 7* ^ 



■if*:' 






- » A# r ^ •*■ *‘ * 


V 


*t < 




4 t.% 

■"k 






• ' .'r ;«/••' ■ 

k^jtSh-r. •/.•'_/ •_■■■' ; '. 




« : 

’ #■ 

" 


r^V 


'T. 


^ '^1 


•-« - .A 


■■vr; "* 


-^ 4 ; 

JV'a *- "■ 

# ■- ■ . '¥ 
^r'"' 


• ' ♦ */■%' ~ • *' -^ - ’’^^' j ■'■, ^ 

''■■'■■• •'i-'-. . '"Ts'rJtv' i.'f 

■ ■■‘VtJiri'Vv ■- ■• '• .f * ■^'■^. <^.r. 

V v^ * 4T . r • * • 

•*"■'■ •'-■HH r. ^ w •*' 


^ t 


.l.f 


^ * 


S : 


■ k. - 




*•- 


• ‘ u* *- ' - ' • >'T ■ 

V» • /O’ '- '.' 



$ 


■> 'c M' *%-■ - :.^ 'r^ 




y» . 


-■ . 



« ^ 


. ^ 

t 4 


.%ff' .7 


r ‘Ti • 

^ JC 


'• * • ■ . ■ , ,^ .^ ■••.«. . AiS'cr • . / 


V <. 

■'‘- ''A 


^ ' 
'< ■ » ' 


>. • . . •'■ 
' ■ r 

•4* .' 


4 V 

f 

< 

l»S 


* • -e 
» - 


4 ^ 


’3S 



' .a ■< 




1^ .* 't 


AUNT POLLYCARP’S ANNUAL 


VERY year Aunt and Uncle Pollycarp 
give a family dinner, which they refer 
to as their “Annual.” Aunt Polly- 
carp says she will give one once a year if it kills 
her, whereupon Prince Knowledge disrespectfull}^ 
remarks that it is much likelier to kill us. I 
rather dread these family reunions. The 
younger members never warm up to them, and 
I, knowing that the absence of the least one 
of them will create consternation, begin to coax 
and threaten alternately, from the time the 
invitation is given, until the family, clad in 
their best, are on their way to the feaster’s 
edifice. 

Aunt Pollycarp’ s house is as complicated as 
the catacombs. It is small, but there are “un- 
expected pitfalls,” so to speak. It was not all 
built at one time, but had been “added on to” 
according to the whims of the occupants. I 



53 


54 

have never been able to get to the room I start 
for the first time I attempt it. For instance, 
if I wish to reach the sitting-room — which was 
an afterthought — I am apt to find myself in 
the pickle closet. And on one occasion, starting 
for the attic, I opened a door, evidently put 
there to mislead the unwary, and found myself, 
after a few breathless seconds (during which 
my whole past life rose clearly before me) in 
the vegetable cellar. Then there are two front 
doors, and it takes one, unless he or she be 
blessed with much firmness of character and a 
will of iron, quite a time to decide which to 
enter. And when the family leaves, its members 
are apt to become separated in one of the 
grewsome halls (unless they are tied together) 
and leave the house by different doors, and this 
has led to serious complications in the past. 

Well, Aunt Pollycarp gave her “Annual” last 
week. She borrowed all my forks and glasses 
the day before, so that, for several meals we 
were obliged to have hash for the “piece de 


55 

resistance’* and eat it with spoons, and to drink 
from an improvised loving cup. Besides, she 
borrow^ed my cook-book, salt cellars, silver 
candlesticks, door-mat and mj" best pin-cushion. 
The pin-cushion was for the dressing-room, but, 
as there was no guide furnished the guests, the 
dressing-room remained undiscovered, except by 
one unfortunate individual, who succeeded in 
getting there, but alas! could not retrace her 
steps. In the excitement which always attends 
an ‘‘Annual” she was not missed, and was 
discovered some hours later in an hysterical 
condition in the laundry. 

The dinner was good, but quaint. Uncle 
Pollycarp cares for nothing “new fangled.” 
There was not the uncertainty wnth regard to 
wdiat is coming next that attends the modern 
banquet; we saw at a glance that we were 
expected to consume. There was the huge 
turkey, dressed like a ballet dancer in red tissue 
paper; the ham, bestuck with cloves; the chicken, 
covered with slices of golden carrots; and there 


56 


was hominy, sweet potatoes, and fried parsnips, 
and many other things. Then came the plum 
pudding, just like an inflated football in size 
and shape, and made after Uncle Pollycarp’s 
grandmother’s recipe. 

After we had all eaten so much that we felt 
wretched and uncomfortable, and two buttons 
from Winningway s back shot across the room, 
Aunt Polly carp rang a bell, and the maid strug- 
gled in with a large bowl of apple toddy, also 
made after a recipe which had been in Uncle 
Pollycarp’s family for generations. Then our 
host rose to his feet and proposed toasts to various 
members of the family present, who are looked 
upon as local shining lights, and one toast was to 
the memory of those who used to attend the 
‘ ‘ Annuals ” but who are no longer with us. There 
was silence for a while then, and I saw Aunt 
Pollycarp brush away a tear. Then we all took 
a little more apple toddy, and Uncle Pollycarp 
said it reminded him of the good old times before 
the war, when he lived down in Maryland. And 


SI 

Aunt Pollycarp said it reminded her of the time 
when she was young, like Princess Philanthropy 
is to-day, and Uncle Pollycarp came a- wooing. 
Then we all took a little more apple toddy out of 
respect for these antique epochs. 

Princess Tiny and Princess Winningways were 
becoming restless, so I gave to each, to quiet 
them, a little paste- board box filled with charlotte 
russe, trimmed around the edge with candied 
cherries, and sat the darlings in a quiet corner 
where they would not disturb their elders. Uncle 
Pollycarp gave Beauty a wee bit of apple toddy, 
to ‘ ‘ warm her up ” he said, and I noticed that the 
glass was nearly full of apple, so comforted myself 
with the thought that .she could find but little 
liquid to “warm up” with, so I returned to the 
“reminiscing” which is always one of the main 
features of an “Annual.” After another glass 
all around, Uncle Pollycarp proposed a song, and 
the little house, with its various wings and addi- 
tions, quivered with delight, as we all joined in 
the soul- warming ballad, “Should auld acquaint- 


58 

aiice be forgot?*’ We all decided that it 
should not under any circumstances, and the 
party broke up. 

I hastened to gather together my scattered 
family. I found Tiny and Winningways weeping 
in the corner where I had left them. “What is 
the matter dears,” I ask anxiously, “did you not 
like the charlottes?” “Yes, mamma,” they 
replied in tearful chorus, ‘ ‘ but the crust was so 
hard.” Heavens! they had eaten the paste- 
board. Where was Beauty? Asleep ! beside her 
an empty glass. Ye gods ! she had eaten the 
apple. 

We finally reach home, a sadly demoralized 
family, and Aunt Pollycarp’s “Annual” was 
wholly to blame. 


HER DREAM OF FREEDOM 



HE was utterly worn out and tired of 
it all — this wearisome monotony — day 
in and day out the same old tasks to 
be performed. No wonder her brain reeled and 
her heart grew faint at the changeless aspect of 
the years to come. Thus she thought as she 
drew her low chair up to her work-basket, which 
was heaped high with the week’s mending. 

While she sewed she indulged in day dreams 
of what might come to pass some happy day, 
when she would have escaped from her present 
environments. Her surroundings were pleasant 
enough; the window near which she sat was low 
and broad; flowers bloomed near by, and her bird 
in its gilded cage hopped cheerfully about, and 
strove, every now and then, to cheer her with his 
sweet songs. She could, without turning her 
head, see away down the village street, at the 
foot of which the broad river ran; and even 
59 


6o 


beyond the river, where the hills rose sharply 
and shut out the rest of the world. In summer, 
sometimes, when the hills looked blue and seemed 
to melt into the sky, she had longed to put aside 
her mending and her other homely tasks, and 
cross the river and climb the hills, and journey 
into the unknown country beyond her vision. But 
to-day the world was covered with snow, and the 
sky looked gray and cold. So she fastened her 
eyes on her sewing and continued her discon- 
tented train of thought. 

There was the marketing every morning; then 
the descent into the kitchen to oil the domestic 
machinery if things were not running smoothly; 
then the climb to the top story lest the house- 
maid be not battling with the dust, as behooved 
her; then luncheon with the hungry children, to 
be followed by a hasty trip to the shops, or, 
perhaps a visit from a tiresome neighbor. And 
this had gone on for more years than she cared 
to count. No wonder she was weary beyond 
telling. How she longed for a change of 


thought, a change of scene; a chance to stretch 
her limbs, to take a long full breath of pure air, 
without realizing that she was wasting time by 
so doing. How joyfully could she bid adieu to 
the cook, the housemaid, the fat butcher, the 
green grocer. Even those whom she loved she 
fain would leave awhile, for she sometimes 
fancied that they had grown so accustomed to 
her love that they had ceased to value it. The 
holiday season would soon be here, she thought 
with a sigh, and her duties would be multiplied, 
and the winter days were far too short, crowd 
them as she might, to hold her tasks. Oh, to 
be rid of it all! And she lifted her sad eyes and 
fixed them upon the distant hills, with their 
white night-caps, leaning upon the bosom of 
the gray sky. 

It is not often that our wishes are granted, 
and rarer yet that our dreams come true in this 
contrary old world, but hers did. She did not 
know exactly how it came about, but one day 
found her upon a gallant ship sailing the high 


62 


seas, her native land fading in the distance. It 
had been as delightful as she had anticipated 
to say farewell to her humdrum cares, and to 
leave some one else to wrestle with the fat 
butcher and the green grocer for tardy justice, 
but, somehow, the parting with the loved ones 
had been harder than she thought. The chil- 
dren’s sweet faces were so sad when she kissed 
them good-bye; ever the memory of that scene 
rose before her and filled her eyes with tears, 
and hid the blue sea over which she was sailing. 
How would they get along without her, she 
wondered? Who would waken Robert in the 
morning, hear Susan’s lessons, or bathe Mar- 
garet’s head should she have one of her spells 
of pain? Perhaps she should have brought little 
Margaret with her, she thought regretfully; 
but no, it was best as it was; they would love 
her better when she returned to them. And 
so she turned her back upon the vanishing land 
and let the salt winds dry her tears. 

She arrived in due season at the distant city 


^3 

where she was to spend several months. Friends 
met her, and she said to herself as she grasped 
their hands: “Now I shall enjoy the freedom 
I have longed for.” The days passed, but, to 
her surprise, she found herself listening for the 
children’s voices, and, not hearing them, the 
world seemed very silent; and not seeing their 
familiar forms around her, the world seemed 
empt}^ It was near Christmas, and the shops 
were filled with tempting articles, and the streets 
were filled with happy boys and girls, but she 
disliked to look at the pretty things, now that 
she had no need to buy, and the sight of the 
laughing children made her sad of heart, because 
they reminded her of those she had left. 

Outside the markets hung the beeves and 
Ltlings in tempting array, and the sight 
reminded her of the fat butcher at home, and 
she felt her heart soften even toward him. She 
found herself trying to kill time, a new occu- 
pation for her. No matter how long she lingered 
in the wonderful galleries, or knelt in the dim 


64 

churches, or strolled through the beautiful city, 
there were always several idle hours on her 
hands ere the day was ended, and more than 
once she found herself longing for the despised 
mending. Why, at home the days were never 
half long enough — night always came before 
she was ready for it, and night always found 
the children around her; at the thought a pang 
of loneliness smote her heart. The days passed, 
and, if she were not happy, she undoubtedly 
had herself to blame, for the things for which 
she had longed were hers, the time of which 
she had dreamed had come — she was free from 
the wearisome monotony of domestic cares. 
Oftentimes at home, when she had one of her 
nervous headaches, the children’s voices nearly 
drove her frantic, but now, when she was ill, 
the silence which surrounded her was oppres- 
sive; she felt overcome by it, and would fain 
have called aloud for the children to speak, had 
she not put the sea between them and her. 

Christmas dawned, but it found her restless 


65 


and anxious. She walked along the streets in 
the early morn on her way to church and gazed 
into the happy homes, where the inmates were 
already enjoying the great festival. She saw 
the mothers, a little tired looking perhaps, but 
happy. And oh, the children! the joyful, 
beautiful children ! And in the dim light of 
the winter’s dawn she stretched out her arms 
and called aloud for her old darlings beyond 
the sea. She walked sadly back to her friend’s 
house. They met her with anxious, frightened 
faces, and put into her hand a message. It 
contained but four words, but what bitter news 
they conveyed to the poor woman who tried 
to grasp their meaning. “Margaret is very ill.” 
Little Margaret! Her baby ill! Perhaps even 
unto death, and she, her mother, far away from 
her. She rung her hands in agony and fell 
upon her knees, and begged God to spare her 
child. 

Just then she felt a pair of arms around her 
neck, and a sweet voice, surely Margaret’s voice. 


66 


in her ear. She raised her eyes, and lo! the 
snow-capped hills were in the distance and 
behind them the gray sky. And there she sat 
in her low rocking-chair in her bright window, 
with her mending beside her, and the children 
had just rushed in, rosy and hungry, from 
school. Her freedom had been but a dream — 
and, thank God, her sorrow a dream also. 


OUR VISIT TO THE SUBURBS. 



jMOGENB asked me to-day if I did 
not consider it one’s duty to elevate 
the working classes. We were sitting 
in a railroad station, and I was in a low state of 
mind. 

She and Philanthropy and I had been spend- 
ing the day with a friend who lives in the 
suburbs whom we had been trying for a year to 
visit, but every time a day was appointed it 
either rained or snowed, or was insufferably hot 
or cruelly cold. I was quite discouraged, and 
had about made up my mind not to seek her 
society while we inhabited this mundane planet, 
but wait to enjoy her companionship until we 
reached a place where the climate was more even 
and transportation not attended with so many 
difficulties. However, she insisted upon our 
coming this particular day, and sent me a time- 
table with the early train deeply underlined. I 

67 


68 


supposed, of course, the underlining was intended 
as a recommendation, and so changed all the 
meals and disorganized things generally, and 
reached the station in a breathless, overheated 
condition, only to learn that the early train had 
been taken off. My friend explained later in 
the day that she had intended to convey that 
information by the lead pencil lines. The next 
train left an hour later, and we spent the time 
walking up and down the depot platform, and 
scrutinizing the anxious, care-lined faces of the 
people who arrived from the suburbs, and those 
who, like ourselves, had misunderstood the time 
table and had missed the train. I suppose the 
constant anxiety to be on time, and the over- 
whelming thought that your whole future hap- 
piness or misery depends upon a minute more 
or less, gives one that hunted look. Indeed, 
since that morning, I can tell suburban men and 
women by their expressions. 

At last the starting moment came, and I 
began to feel that after all we were really goii'g 


69 


to succeed in reaching our friend’s charming 
home. However, we were, unfortunately, 
unfamiliar with the appearance of the station 
at which we were to alight, and the brakesman 
seemed to speak a language entirely unfamiliar 
to us, so we were carried a mile past our des- 
tination. 

When at last we returned my friend’s wel- 
coming embrace, and she asked us when we left 
home, I felt inclined to put the date back a 
week or so, I felt so weary and travel worn. 
After we had had luncheon and were somewhat 
refreshed, she showed us with pride the various 
reasons why everyone should live in a suburban 
town. “ In the first place,” she said, “there 
was the air, so pure, so exhilarating; then there 
was the vegetable garden, the chickens, the 
cow, the croquet ground, the tennis court — ” 
“and,” I added, “the time-table.” But she 
assured us that the latter was no drawback 
whatever, that one got used to it and after a 
while carried a time-table as naturally as a 


70 

pocket handkerchief, a purse or any other article 
that one had grown up with. 

Even as she spoke a faint whistle sounded in 
the distance, at such a distance and so faintly 
that I, with my city-bred ears, would not have 
noticed it, but my hostess spent most of her 
time listening for whistles, and across her face 
came the suburban expression. “I don’t want 
to hurry you,” she said nervously, “but in a 
few minutes your train — ” We waited to hear 
no more, but rushed toward the house, falling 
over croquet wickets and trampling the young 
vegetables in our flight. We seized our wraps 
and fled, making our toilettes in the village 
street. We postponed our adieux indefinately. 
Who can say good-bye when that puff puff is 
growing louder and more near every second? 
The neighbors hearing the commotion, ran to 
the windows to see what was disturbing their 
(jiiiet lives, but we looked neither to the right 
i.or left. Alas ! our haste was in vain. The 
conductor would not heed our frantic gesticula- 


71 


tions, and the train moved off just as we reached 
the station. 

When Imogene asked me the question with 
regard to the working classes, I was in no mood 
to help my fellow man. The next train would 
not be along for an hour, but she, of course, was 
unruffled. After I had recovered my breath and 
reflected a little, I replied that I thought I had 
done considerably more for the working classes 
than they had ever done for me. I had paid 
them unreasonable bills without a murmur, 
although the doing of it had often left me 
seriously embarrassed financially. She said I 
did not catch her meaning exactly, that she 
referred more especially to the servants; had I 
made their lives easier, tried to better their con- 
dition? “Of course,” I replied, and called 
Philanthropy to witness that I had covered my 
kitchen with oilcloth to save my cook’s knees, 
had purchased two rocking chairs so that she 
could enjoy her cousin’s .society as comfortably 
as possible. And I had also purchased a patent 


72 

dryer and a washing machine for the laundress. 
Imogene smiled a faint, indulgent smile, and 
went on to say that she referred more particularly 
to their mental and spiritual condition. Had I 
striven to expand their views, to lift them up, so 
to speak? “ Certainly,” I replied. I felt myself 
warming up to the subject. “ Did I not give the 
waitress my Charity Ball ticket, and send the 
nurse to Mr. Philibustus’ lecture on the works 
of Moses?” These philanthropic acts of mine 
did not seem to satisfy Imogene. She .said it 
was not an occasional kind act, but striving 
without cessation that would accomplish a great 
work; and such she considered the beautifying 
of the wage workers’ lives. She had joined a 
club organized for that purpose. The members 
proposed renting a house in some picturesque 
spot, and inviting the working girls out for the 
summer months, not all at once, of course, but 
a few at a time, and they proposed having 
musical evenings, literary evenings, and some of 
the most promising would be given lessons in 


73 


Delsarte. Philanthropy said the idea was beauti- 
ful, and she thought we owed much to those who 
were called to lives of toil. 

Just then the train drew up at the station 
and we were dragged aboard by the accommodat- 
ing conductor. 

“Yes,” I said to Princess Philanthropy later 
in the evening (she was wrapping up my throb- 
bing head in “vinegar and brown paper’’ as 
awkward Jack’s noddle was wrapped by the 
patient Jill) “ the luncheon was delicious. ” The 
vegetables and chickens she had raised herself, 
and the omelette was made of eggs laid by her 
favorite hen. The cow that we saw eating grass 
near the dining room window, gave the rich milk 
and cream; but somehow I prefer the imperson- 
ality of a city luncheon. One does not know, 
of course, where anything comes from, but one 
escapes the uncanny sensation of devouring one’s 
friends. 

I am content, so depraved is my taste, to 
spread butterine on my bread, buy vegetables 


74 

from the green grocer around the corner, eggs 
from the cold storage, and milk from the deceit- 
ful milkman; aye, even fill my lungs with the 
germ-laden city air if I may be freed from the 
drawbacks of a suburban home, chief among 
which is the bewildering, misleading time-table. 


OUR JOURNEY TO THE SEA. 


ENTivHNKSS has been looking pale 
of late. The dear child is never 
strong and the winter tells upon 
her. “Give her a breath of sea air,” the 
doctor says. So I fling to the winds the cod 
liver oil and iron, and prepare for flight. I buy 
the younger princesses ready-made yachting 
suits, remodel some of Philanthropy’s outgrown 
finery for Generosity, purchase a ready-made 
costume for myself which will suit all occa- 
sions, and which is capable of as many trans- 
formations as a folding bed, but lacks the 
deadly element of the latter, and, thus equipped, 
we start off in the early morn of a sunny 
day. The spring has come in earnest; the 
promise has been fulfilled; the trees are faintly 
green, and at dawn when I awakened and 
tried to remember how many things I had 



75 


76 

forgotten, the air was vocal with the chirpings 
of happy little birds. 

“ O soft, melodious Springtime, 

First born of hope and love.” 

The whole family accompany us ' to the 
station, and Philanthropy, noticing my down- 
cast expression, bids me not to be foolish and 
worry, but to be wise and enjoy myself. As 
for her, she will be kept occupied; she adds: 
she intends entertaining her Sunday-school 
class, and as the younger children will not be 
home, I need have no fears of the measles, 
scarlet fever, etc. (this last in a sarcastic 
tone), “Besides, the Waif’s Mission . . . .“ 
But I am destined never to know what awaits 
the Waif’s Mission, for just then the carriage 
door flies open and I grab Tiny just in time 
to save her from a violent death. 

I am in an agitated frame of mind. I have 
an overwhelming feeling of responsibility. Who 
knows what may happen before we return? I 
remember once having read in a paper how a 


77 


whole family was wiped from the face of the 
earth in a week’s time. 

I also have a sensation of having lost some- 
thing, and I open my traveling bag every few 
minutes to assure myself that my fears have 
no foundation. Yes, here are the railroad 
tickets, here the sleeping car tickets, here the 
keys and time-table. Heavens ! my purse ! 
“Stop the carriage!” I exclaim, “I have lost 
my purse.” 

Philanthropy catches my arm as I am about 
to open the door. “Your purse is in your 
hand, mamma,” she remarks calmly, and I sink 
back in my seat, abashed and subdued, but* 
not consoled, for now I am convinced that my 
mind is hourly growing weaker, and I am in 
no condition to leave home with five children. 

When we reach the station Knowdedge gives 
me the trunk checks, which still further bewil- 
der me and increase my responsibility. The 
three older members accompany us into the 
car and deposit our personal property on the 


78 


seats. What a sight ! Five satchels, three 
umbrellas, six waterproofs, a traveling clock, a 
medicine chest, a thermometer, a luncheon 
box. Bach child makes a wild dash for the 
windows, and, as there are but four windows 
and five children, some temporary excitement 
ensues. 

I feel that I have a dozen things to say to 
those I am about to leave, but can think of 
none of them, so we sit silently gazing into 
each other’s faces until the conductor shouts 
“All aboard,” and they rise to go. A calm 
kiss from Philanthropy, a dignified ditto from 
Knowledge, and a hug from Active which 
leaves me dazed and breathless, with a vague 
impression that I have been struck by a cyclone. 
The train moves off slowly and we wave adieux 
to the three familiar forms standing on the 
platform. Suddenly a bend in the road hides 
them from our view, whereupon Winningways 
bursts into tears and exclaims in stentorian 
tones that she is ‘ ‘ going right straight home. ’ ’ 


79 


In vain I coax and plead with her; she wails 
the louder. I look around the car; not a child 
but my own is visible. My fellow travelers 
are, apparently, single ladies and gentlemen 
or rich childless widows and widowers; 
no sympathy to be expected from them. I 
turn to Winningway s and paint in rainbow 
hues the pleasures awaiting us at our journey’s 
end. She howls on. 

A happy thought strikes me. I untie the 
luncheon box and hold it before her. Quiet 
is restored, and the family revel in sand- 
wiches, cold tongue and jam. I take advantage 
of their preoccupation to count over my checks, 
etc. 

How we speed over the prairies, which are 
thickly dotted with golden dandelions! Now and 
then we stop at small towns and look out at 
the solemn looking people who have come 
down to see the train, seemingly looking for 
friends who never come. When the day grows 
late and the little ones are asleep, Generosity 


8p 


and I gaze out at the primrose sky, in which 
the stars are just beginning to twinkle. The 
lights are also twinkling in the farm-house 
windows; how forlorn, how solitary these 
homes appear ! I find myself wondering about 
the inmates; are they happy in their lives of 
toil and monotony — do they love each other 
as we do? Then my mind goes back to the 
home we have left. The lamps, do doubt, 
are lit in the parlor, and Philanthropy is 
probably sitting before the open fire, toasting 
her dainty toes and waiting for dinner to be 
announced. I am positively getting homesick, 
so, after counting over the contents of my 
satchel once more, I kiss Generosity and go 
to bed. 

When we awake the next morning and look 
out of the window, what a view greets us ! 
The dandelion-dotted prairies have disappeared, 
and lo ! we are climbing a high mountain whose 
sides are hung with laurel and, 

“ Whose sunbright summit 
Mingles with the sky.” 


8i 


Beneath lie the peaceful valleys, emerald green. 
If yesterday was spring, to-day is summer. 
Beauty and Gentleness are wild with delight and 
feel as did Alice in wonderland. 

In the afternoon we reach the beautiful city 
where Uncle Pollycarp was born. The familiar 
carryall awaits us at the station, and is suf- 
ficiently large to hold us and our luggage as 
well. It is built somewhat after the fashion of 
the Ark, and, like its model, is weatherproof. 
There is nothing vulgarly new in its appearance 
nor alarmingly swift in the gait of the horses 
that are attached to it. But we are in no hurry, 
and we enjoy the ride up the broad avenue to 
the old house in which Uncle Pollycarp’s grand- 
father lived and died. % 

We notice as we jog along how quiet, how 
peaceful, how restful everything is. No bewild- 
ering rush, no senseless hurry. We pass in a 
beautiful park a statue of George Washington 
clad in the garb of a Roman Senator. What 
memories it awakens ! I forget for the time 


82 


being the five princesses who are with me. I 
am a child again, gazing up at that wonderful 
figure with admiration and awe. How majestic 
it looked in those day§ ! On the other side of 
the park is the round pond in which the red 
and gold fish swam; what a treat it was to throw 
them a handful of crumbs through the iron 
railing, and watch them come from the green 
depths to fight for it. Above the pond was 
the dragon fountain. Loving arms lifted me up 
long ago that I might fill the huge iron dipper 
with the cool, pure water. Ah ! this was in 
the da3^s that are gone. Time has wrought 
some cruel changes, but George Washington 

sits there unchanged, unmoved. He seemed old 

* 

when I was a child, and now, that I am old, he 
seems young. 

A great many aunts and uncles and cousins 
call to see us at the old house. We visit the 
beautiful City of the Dead on the hillside, at 
the foot of which flows a broad river. Here 
lie many who loved us tenderly long ago, and 


83 

whom we love now more than we did then, 
because we have grown older and understand. 

When we have said good-bye to the living 
and the dead, we gather together our shawls 
and umbrellas, and refill our luncheon box and 
turn our faces to the sea, and when it greets our 
vision in all its sublimity, in all its immensity, 
sparkling as if strewn with countless diamonds, 
the children clap their hands with delight, and 
we drink in the delicious air and are glad we 
were born. I notice on Gentleness’ cheeks 
faint roses are already blowing. I tried to 
catch a glimpse of the sea from my bedroom 
window when I rose, but did not succeed — 
although I leaned over so far that I lost my 
balance, and would probably have made a rapid 
an unexpected descent to the balcony below, 
had not Generosity clung desperately to the 
end of my dressing gown, so it is not until we 
come out of doors after breakfast, that we find 
what we came so far to seek. 

As we walk down the broad board walk a 


feeling of supreme content steals over me. I 
am become reconciled to life just as it is, with 
its numerous vexations, its wearying disappoint- 
ments. The mood will not last, I know. In 
a few hours the desire to reform the universe 
and remodel my friend’s characters will rush 
back upon me with sevenfold force, as did the 
devils upon the unfortunate man the Bible tells 
about, but at present the devil of discontent 
is completely exorcised, and I stoop to kiss the 
children out of exuberance of joy. We make 
some purchases in the queer little shops which 
bound the board walk on one side and form 
the ocean’s vis-a-vis. I buy an instructive book 
for Generosity, some buckets and shovels for the 
younger children, and a novel for myself. 

I have the children’s picture taken as a souvenir 
of the visit. The artist stands them upon a 
rustic bridge, shovels and buckets in hand, and 
under the bridge he places a bushy door- mat, 
which, he explains, will look like a raging 
torrent in the picture. But the group is not. 


85 


Strictly speaking, a success. In the first place 
the children all assumed, for some unknown 
reason, an expression of profound melancholy; 
and just as they are “being taken” and the 
artist has uncovered his head, and turned his 
back, watch in hand, Winningways dropped her 
bucket over the bridge railing into the torrent 
beneath, and evidently had a notion of going 
over after it, for she appears in the picture 
with both heels in mid-air. Gentleness and 
Beauty clinging to her for dear life. 

The tide is out and we w^alk over the stretch 
of yellow sand to the water’s edge. The chil- 
dren dance with delight as the little waves, with 
their white crests, come up to their toes and 
then dance away back out of sight; perhaps 
they go to kiss children’s toes on the other side 
of the world. After a while the tide begins 
to come in. The sea is returning from that 
mysterious daily jaunt of hers, and we retreat, 
inch by inch, before the advancing water, until 
we find ourselves on the board walk again, 


86 


against which the waves toss and pitch in such 
a boisterous fashion that Winningways clings 
to my gown in fright. A cool sea breeze has 
blown in with the tide, so we gather up our 
buckets and shovels, turn up our coat collars 
and hurry back to luncheon. 

The young princesses find the merry-go-round 
highly interesting. They can take their choice 
of animals, for in the huge circle is represented 
every variety in the kingdom known to science, 
and some (I conclude after viewing the collec- 
tion) which are as yet undiscovered. I sit at a 
little distance and watch the happy riders; each 
is strapped upon her chosen steed; Gentleness 
and Tiny have selected camels with exaggerated 
humps. Beauty is upon the back of a dangerous 
looking lion, and Generosity sits in a golden 
chariot with Winningways beside her. Round 
and round they go; each time they pass me 
they smile and wave their hands — as if to assure 
me that, in spite of their delight, they are not 
unmindful of me, and I smile and wave back, 


8 ? 

iiluch pleased to see my family so bravely 
mounted. 

At dinner three women sit opposite us, lofty 
of mien and cold of manner. I gather from 
their conversation that they are from an aristo- 
cratic city near by, where, I have heard tell, 
they draw very fine social lines, where even 
streets are divided against themselves. I sup- 
pose the line of demarkation is drawn down 
the middle of the cobble-stone road, invisible 
to the eye, but as difficult to pass as a barbed 
wire fence. 

I fear these ladies are disposed to look down 
on the wild and uncultured West, for they 
glance at my innocent offspring, as the latter, 
clad in their ready-made yachting suits, walk 
into the dining room, as if the darlings were 
miniature Buffalo Bills. They are telling of 
some one who has committed suicide by mar- 
rying a man who occupied a social position less 
lofty than her own; he probably lived on the 
wrong side of the thoroughfare. I find myself 


88 


becoming quite interested in that reckless 
woman who has dared to cross the line on 
the cobble-stones and wed the man of her 
choice. “They seem to be happy,” the least 
blue-blooded of the three remarks timidly. 
The others glare at her with marked disap- 
proval and repeat in dirge-like tones: “ Impos- 
sible; impossible.” 

We remain at the sea until we are satisfac- 
torily sunburned; until the faint roses .on 
Gentleness’ cheeks have deepened in color; 
until the yachting suits have faded from navy 
blue to purple; until we have selected souvenir 
spoons for all our friends at home; until the 
head waiter (evidently not realizing his expec- 
tations with regard to fees) has turned on us 
the cold shoulder; until we are well-nigh pen- 
niless, and then we go home. 

We send no word of our coming, but intend 
surprising the family. We reach the city, in 
which we have the good fortune to live, about 
bed-time. I express the hope that they will 


89 


not disturb Philanthropy’s “beauty sleep.” 

I notice as we approach our modest dwelling 
that it is brilliantly illuminated, and as we 
mount the front steps, a delicious odor of 
coffee and oysters greets us. The door is 
opened by a strange colored gentleman in evening 
dress, and he seems quite undecided about 
admitting us. I begin to feel like a mod- 
ern Rip Van Winkle. As we proceed slowly, 
handicapped by our personal property, we see 
gaily-dressed men and women; among whom we 
recognize sweet Imogene, Mignonne and Philan- 
thropy. The latter advances and gives me a 
welcome embrace, and then says, reassuringly, 
“Don’t look so startled, mamma; we are merely 
giving a Musicale for the benefit of the 
‘ Tramp’s Resort.’ ” 



THE CAPTAIN’S STORY. 


HE boat was skimming over the water; 
we were sailing up the broad inlet, 
and the wind blew in puffs from the 
salt marshes. The day was overcast, and the 
sea, toward which we were making our way, 
looked grim and relentless, as it does oftentimes 
when the sun is not shining. The Captain 
stood with his hand on the tiller, and stooped 
now and then to look under the sail, lest we get 
too near the reedy shore. The inlet is a broad 
arm of the sea, and it winds in and out and 
around about the salt meadows like a wide river. 

The Captain interested us. He was gray, 
weatherbeaten and picturesque; he looked as if 
he might have a history; the artist from Boston 
was slily sketching him. 

“ No, mum, I have no son that could give me 
a helping hand,'’ he said in response to a ques- 
tion. “I never married until two years or so 



91 


ago, although I am well nigh on to fifty years 
old. I have lived most of my life on the sea, 
and a man who loves the sea should have no 
other love; he has no right to marry and leave 
his wife home to fret and worry. I was born 
over yonder,” and he pointed away over to the 
right in the gray distance. “Iran away from 
home when I was nine years old, and all on 
account of a pair of nankeen breeches which 
Mother made for me and wanted me to wear, 
although I was set agin them. I ran away to 
the wharf and hid in a ship which was about to 
sail, and when the Captain found me we were 
miles out at sea. 

“ Mother felt terrible when she found it out, so 
they told me afterwards, and used to sit and watch 
the sea for hours, praying for me to come back. 
But we were gone a long, long time, and when 
the ship got into port I did not intend going to 
see the folks at all — boys are that set and stub- 
born — but when I was on the mizzen top one day 
tying up a bit of canvas' that had blown loose. 


93 

my sister came aboard looking for me, and, 
although I ducked my head behind the mast she 
knew me all right. She made me promise to go 
up to the house that night. And mother never 
said a cross word to me when I got there, but 
broke down and cried when she saw me. The 
girls said the nankeen breeches were folded away 
in her top drawer, along with the silk dress she 
got when she was married, and she often looked 
at them and said she was .sorry she asked me to 
wear them, for they were no kind of a fit, and 
I was terribly proud-spirited. They all tried to 
make me promise to stay at home. Mother 
said she was getting old and wanted me with 
her, but I was determined to go to sea again. I 
used to fancy at night I heard it calling me, and 
when the ship started out I was aboard her. We 
were gone several years that time, and when I 
got home great changes had taken place. The 
home was broken up, and Mother — she was 
dead. ’ ’ 

Here the Captain stopped speaking and drew 


94 


his faded coat sleeve across his eyes. ‘ ‘ I am 
such a fool,” he said apologetically, after a short 
time. “I can’t speak of her without breaking 
down — after all these years. Well, no one cared 
where I went after that. My sisters were mar- 
ried and had families of their own, so I made up 
my mind that a ship would be the only home 
I should ever know, and that I should live and 
die on the sea. However, here about three 
years ago I concluded to marry and settle down, 
so I bought a little place not far from the church- 
yard where they buried Mother. I thought if 
the dead do know what is going on here, it 
might be a comfort to her to have me give up 
the sea — she never had no use for it — and to live 
near her. A year ago my little Susan was born, 
and when I held that little thing in my arms, 
and felt my heart well nigh bursting with love, 
I knew then, for the first time, how much my 
mother loved me, and how much I had made 
her suffer, and all on account of those derned 
nankeen breeches. Sometimes now, when little 


95 

Sue and I go off together to look alter flowers 
which I planted on mother’s grave, I have a 
real good cry thinking of her — after all these 
years. ’ ’ 

We had reached the open sea and the Captain 
looked at the sullen water and the threatening 
sky, shook his head wisely, turned his boat 
about, and -we sailed back through the inlet, 
and the wind blew in from the salt marshes. 
We tried to cheer him on our way home, but 
his face looked hard and set. Our idle questions 
had opened the flood-gates and the past was 
rushing back upon him. In spirit he was in the 
old home again with his mother, and, thank 
God, he knew how much she had loved him — 
after all these years. 






< 






kX 


1 


. i 




<-'«*■# ■ *-»*-■“ M *.. 






■■•« - 






M' , ->■' 4 V" » 7 ^ ’, 

^ , Si™ - •l^ 

' ■-VwW'. :v ■■ ' • '.V -..A:.; 



, I 






t '"ir ».* '?> . • -i» , 

^•- .t 

•-V- ? \ ‘ 


i-j >. 


'■ 


V, 


. •'^' ' ' • ' '. ^ jl'Sil 

di 3 


* / 



", 'U.“' 




.• .* 


. I 




^ V,' 





V 



r ■-<■ , i 

i » , • ■ . , ■' /-s*--' : 'a , 


rv ^ 




I A A 

^ V*.%-/v,. 


« 


- > 


.'* 15 ?** •* . , 

*» ’ .* • .. P p‘ 


- --ii/ 

f > 


o 


-* f t' 







IP' "T* ■ * T* •, 







. >^v .* ; : " : ^ fcJ 

jb- V.'^ ^ - ' > *k .'-1 -- •/ 




• * I 1 j- * 




■ * 




A 


♦ 9 


- 


Jr-wcL v*^ • ‘ ^ 4 : H T« ? • < 


sK 

r '. 








•-■** 5 *j 









” 7 > . V .' ^ 

mm'. •TlftrilT ■*■. - -* i 




THEIR GOLDEN WEDDING. 



AST week Aunt and Uncle Pollycarp 
celebrated their golden wedding. 
They have walked side by side along 
the uneven path of life for fifty years. Fifty 
years — with their checkered shine and shade — 
grateful when the way was smooth beneath their 
feet, and patient when it was rough and hard 
to travel. Yet I heard Uncle Pollycarp say 
when he looked backward it seemed but as a 
day since he and Aunt Pollycarp were married 
in the little old church among the Virginia 
hills. It was in the morning, that wedding 
day, and now it is evening; the shadows are 
lengthening along their path, the sun hangs 
low in the sky — dear Aunt and Uncle Polly- 
carp ! 

They stood in the corner of their quaint 
parlor the other night to receive their friends; 
their little house was brilliant with lights and 
97 



98 

fragrant with flowers, and was in holiday 
attire, as a house should be for a golden wed- 
ding. Aunt Pollycarp wore a silver-gray dress, 
just the color of her hair, and across her bosom 
was draped the same lace that bedecked her 
wedding gown, but the heart beneath throbbed 
more slowly, I fancy, than it did fifty long 
years ago. Uncle Pollycarp gazed at her admir- 
ingly; time had but increased his fondness for 
her; his love had waxed stronger with the pas- 
sing years. Over their heads hung their pic- 
tures, painted before their honeymoon had 
waned. Aunt Pollycarp was slight, girlish 
and rosy, and Uncle Pollycarp, resplendent in 
blue broadcloth and brass buttons. Life was 
before them when they sat for those pictures; 
their young faces were full of expectation and 
hope; their eyes eager to pierce the veil which 
hung before the future. What precious gifts, 
they wondered, had Time for them in his keep- 
ing? Now, alas! life is behind them; they have 
tasted its joys and its sorrows, but, thank God, 


99 


contentment and love still warm their hearts. 

The guests came early to the golden wedding, 
and soon the house was filled with men and 
women and little children, for Aunt and Uncle 
Pollycarp invited all those who loved them, 
young and old. After a little while Uncle Pol- 
lycarp fell a -dreaming after a manner of his. 
The past was blotted out; he fancied he was 
celebrating his wedding day long ago among the 
hills, and he looked beyond the friends who 
were around him and seemed to be expecting 
some one who still tarried. “ Why do not 
George and Ruth come?” he asked. “ They prom- 
ised to bring us the trailing arbutus, we saw 
it in the woods yesterday.” 

“Not yesterday, dear, you forget,” Aunt 
Pollycarp whispered, ‘ ‘ but see, George is here. ’ ’ 

As she spoke, through the doorway came a 
white-haired man, bent and tottering with the 
weight of years; he carried in his hands a bunch 
of arbutus which he gave to the bride, “In 
memory of that day fifty years ago,” he said. 


lOO 


“when we gathered it for you, Ruth and I.” 

“Ah, yes,” Uncle Polly carp said softly, “I 
remember, dear Ruth is dead.” 

Just then some nieces came up to the old 
man and he smiled upon them and came back 
from the past to the present. Ah, me ! how 
many who came to that first wedding were absent 
from this golden wedding. There was Aunt 
Poll3^carp’s father, who gave the bride away, 
and her gentle mother; they have been sleeping 
peacefully for years in the shadow of the little 
ivy-clad church. And Uncle Pollycarp’s best 
man, who went to the war and never returned; 
and the fair bridesmaids — Ruth was not the only 
one of that bright band who laid down the 
burden of life and passed into the land of 
shadows. And yet, how full of hope and hap- 
piness were they all fifty years ago ! Yet all 
went merrily in the little house in spite of the 
absent. When the hour grew late the guests 
departed one by one, the flowers drooped, the 
lights burned low — Aunt and Uncle Polly- 


lOI 


carp’s golden wedding day was nearly done. 

In the flickering candle-light those old fash- 
ioned lovers sat alone, hand in hand. “It was 
sad after all to-night dear; I missed them very 
much.” she said. 

“Yes,” he answered slowly, “ but somehow 
I fancy they were not so far away. If they love 
us as they did in the dear old days, surely they 
came to our golden wedding.” 

I fancy that when the guests from shadow- 
land heard Uncle Polly carp say this they were 
pleased, and drew nearer yet, and stroked the 
gray heads tenderly; for love is deathless and 
knows neither time nor change, and as this 
faithful pair sat hand in hand, dreaming in the 
dim light, over their hearts brooded a peace, 
sweeter than they had ever known, even upon 
that glad May day long ago, and more precious 
than joy or hope. And who shall say it was 
not the gift of those unseen guests who came 
to Aunt and Uncle Pollycarp’s golden wedding? 







'l' V- 




Vi 


•* 


;.,.-’:,. i f. ? ' , 

• ’‘t . 


p 






r- 


•r . 




^ ^ ‘ • •• irML*: * 5| 






V / 




-k 


rtA'^ 


^ •: 




•*,u 


iL#*T"'.^fc3i ^'5^ * ■■ > i''^' 

f>^.'<■i.^. .... ■; i- V* ** -g;-; ,•;* 




« • 



♦ » • . 

« * f « 


^THfMrfr' -k*' •* 

!jSaflCk/_ ’#>. K? b ! 





V*^ 





V 

’.*][’ ^ -X I f 4 - * '* '. 

■" .''0 ' V * 



MISS BETTY AND MISS PATTY. 


FEW years ago a good man was 
called hence by his Master (in whose 
Blessed Name he had done many 
things) to enjoy the reward he so justly 
deserved. Several years before his death he 
erected in Washington — that most enchanting 
city — in memory of a beloved daughter who 
died in early womanhood, a home for impe- 
cunious elderly gentlewomen, When the house 
was built and filled, the charity was recognized 
as a noble and much- needed one, and people 
wondered why some philanthropic soul had not 
thought of it long before. 

The home resembles in no way a charitable 
institution. Situated in one of the most fash- 
ionable neighborhoods, surrounded by sloping 
terraces, and hung about with English ivy, it 
suggests wealth and ease rather than poverty, 
and carries no mark that could wound in any 
103 




104 


way the pride of the gentle inmates. The 
women who have sought its shelter are, with- 
out exception, of refined bearing and gentle 
birth, women who have outlived their fortunes, 
and have drifted into this peaceful haven to 
spend their latter days. 

When I was a very young child I accom- 
panied my grandmother on a visit to some 
friends in Virginia. I remember well the old 
colonial house built on the hilltop, with broad 
porches, supported by huge, round, white pillars. 
Around the pillars a yellow honeysuckle vine 
twined and twisted, and, attracted by its sweet- 
ness, the gorgeous humming-birds darted in and 
out all day long, sparkling in the sun like jewels. 
In the distance the broad Potomac glided along, 
and up and down the river the lazy steamboats 
plowed their way during the summer days. 
The inmates of the house were as delightful as 
one would expect to find them in such a home. 
The genial old Colonel, with his courtly man- 
ners, his gentle wife, and their two charming 


105 


daughters, Miss Betty and Miss Patty, com- 
prised the household. Theirs seemed an ideal 
existence, living among the Virginia hills, their 
lands stretching miles away in every direction, 
flowing with milk and honey — what was there 
in life for them to desire? There was no pre- 
monition of the storm that was gathering over 
them, and which was to sweep over and leave 
desolate that beautiful South Land. Miss Patty 
and Miss Betty won my childish admiration at 
once. I never tired of listening to their soft 
voices, nor of gazing into their sparkling eyes. 
Their hair, which was as black as a raven’s 
wing, they wore combed over their ears and 
knotted low upon their, necks. But what I 
admired most was their tiny, white, soft hands, 
not fit for labor surely, but made to be cher- 
rished and caressed and held firmly in stronger 
hands, should the path of life grow rough or 
hard to travel. Miss Betty and her sister both 
had lovers, tall, handsome men, who owned 
farms in the next county, and who rode over to 

c 


io6 


see their lady loves every evening. Oftentimes 
the four young people would sit on one of the 
broad porches during tlie long summer evenings, 
and Miss Patty would sing in a low, sweet voice, 
“Flow Gently, Sweet Afton,’’ or “ Thou Hast 
Teamed to Tove Another,” and Miss Betty 
would play a soft accompaniment on the guitar. 
The latter song was my favorite. There was a 
despairing pathos in it which touched my heart. 
It seemed to be the young men’s favorite also, 
for, sometimes as they prepared to leave they 
would ask Miss Patty to sing it until they were 
out of hearing, and they would ride awa}^ in the 
yellow moonlight to the melancholy tune of 

“Thou hast learned to love another, 

Thou hast broken every vow 

My grandmother and I remained under that 
hospitable roof for many weeks, and when we 
took our departure we expected to meet our 
friends (whom I had learned to love dearly) 
before many months had passed. But the clouds 
of war which had been gathering almost unno- 


107 


ticed soon began to grow darker and denser each 
day, and after we had trembled for months at 
their angry mutterings, the storm of shot and 
shell burst over the land, and the hills and 
valleys of Virginia which we had watched buf 
and blossom beneath a sky peaceful and serene, 
ran with blood and Death alone reaped a har- 
vest. We heard but little of the Colonel’s 
family for a long time, but after a little, strag- 
gling pieces of information reached us, and as 
the dreadful years passed by, we learned that 
the happy young lovers who rode off in the 
moonlight to the music of Miss Betty’s voice, 
had fought side by side, had fallen in the same 
battle and shared the same unmarked grave. 
The Colonel, deprived of his slaves, his lands 
rendered barren and desolate, died of a broken 
heart, and his wife soon followed him. Miss 
Patty and Miss Betty were left alone in the 
white house. Alone but for the memory of 
happier days which were always with them. 

My grandmother died before the war ended, 


and after that I heard nothing of the two lonely 
sisters for a very long time. When visiting 
Washington a few years ago I learned that Miss 
Patty and Miss Betty were living, had never 
married, and were inmates of the Home, with 
its velvet terraces and its beautifnl mantles of 
ivy. It was a bright April day when I went 
to visit them. As I walked up to the door 
between the fragrant hedges, and inhaled the 
breath of the lilac and syringa blossoms, i 
thought the fortunes of war had not been quite 
merciless, since they had driven my friends to 
this delightful haven. 

I was kept waiting some time in the pleasant 
parlor. “Evidently,” thought I, “Miss Patty 
and Miss Betty still retain a remnant of their 
youthful vanity,” and were “fixing up,” and 
I recalled the careful toilets I had watched with 
awe when I first knew them, when they expected 
the youths from the next county to ride over 
to see them. That was when they w^ere young, 
beautiful and beloved. 


After awhile I heard the rustle of skirts and 
the sound of soft, timid footsteps, and Miss 
Betty and her sister stood before me. Time and 
sorrow had almost obliterated all trace of the 
Miss Betty and Miss Patty I had known — almost, 
but not quite. Nothing but Death could still 
those sweet voices or chill that gracious manner. 
There was no remnant of the black hair I had 
admired so much as a child; the hair that was 
left was snow-white, and drawn smoothly back 
under the dainty caps of lace which eadh wore. 
Many tears had dimmed the luster of their eyes, 
and their pretty hands looked shriveled and the 
blue veins stood out like cords, but Miss Betty 
and Miss Patty held themselves as erect and 
stately as of old. We were soon seated side 
by side, talking affectionately of old times. 

“You see, dear,” Miss Betty said, “It was 
very lonely in the old home after father and 
mother left us, yet we thought we would remain 
there as long as we lived, but, somehow, it 
grew more difficult each year. We were obliged 


I lO 


finally to sell one piece of furniture after the 
other to keep us in food and fuel. Some North- 
erners came down in our neighborhood and 
seemed to take a fancy to our old mahogany, 
and so they bought it, little by little. It was 
hard to part with the things we had so long, but, 
after all, we did not need them. The last thing 
we sold was the great bedstead that belonged 
to father’s father. Patty and I cried a little 
the day we saw that carried away, although we 
thought we had no tears left.” 

“ Betty and I concluded it was time to leave, 
ourselves, then,” said Patty, beginning where 
her sister paused, overcome by sad recollections. 
“The house was out of repair and going to 
ruin, and so we gathered up a few trifles, and 
paid a farewell visit to the dear graves at the 
foot of the hill, and then turned our backs upon 
our home forever. We have saved enough 
from the sale of the house to take us back when 
we die, for we want to lie down by father and 
mother when life is over and done with.” 


Ill 


Dear Miss Patty! Dear Miss Betty i They 
looked beautiful to me with their sweet, faded 
faces and snowy hair, more beautiful than 
when I first knew them in the flower of their 
youth. Thej" were not really old, and had 
fate permitted them to have wedded their 
youthful lovers, they might have been presiding 
over homes, the happj" mothers of children, 
looking forward to many years of life. I was 
anxious to do something for them, and begged 
to be permitted to add some comfort and pleas- 
ure to their lives, but they said “no,” they 
were “quite content;” they were surrounded 
by congenial companions, and each day they 
blessed the memory of her in whose dear name 
the house had been built which sheltered 
them and many like them upon whom the 
world had turned a frowning face. , They 
were still sweet and gracious women, unim- 
bit tered by grief and changing fortunes. I kissed 
their soft, faded cheeks in parting and promised 
myself a visit with them in the near future. 


1 12 


The next spring I found myself again in 
Washington and hastened to inquire for my old 
friends. “Those old ladies from Virginia?” 
asked my cousin. “ They both died last win- 
ter. Miss Betty from pneumonia, and a few 
days after Miss Patty was found dead sitting 
in her rocking chair.” 

And so they have gone back to their old 
home, and are sleeping by the old Colonel and 
his gentle wife, and the hills and valleys around 
about their resting-place are again blossoming- 
like the rose, even as they blossomed when the 
sisters were young and beautiful, and played 
and sang “ Thou Hast Learned . to Love 
Another” as their lovers rode away. 


OFF FOR THE COUNTRY. 


UMMER has come, and the hot sun 
is scorching and searing the earth 
that a short time ago was clad in 
Spring’s green livery. Great clouds of yellow 
dust fly down the deserted streets, chased by 
the burning south wind, that withers the leaves 
on the trees and the grass in its flight. One’s 
very soul yearns for the shady woods and the 
sweet green meadows such weather as this. 

“Oh, for a breath of fresh air,” I gasp 
faintly, and I arise and look at the thermometer 
which hangs outside the window. Heavens, the 
mercury is still climbing ! And I sink back on 
the couch, warmer than ever. 

Winningways and Tiny are pressing their 
faces against the dusty window-screens, and 
have black noses in consequence, but I am too 
languid to remonstrate with them. 

It will soon be over, this struggle with the 




heat and with the dust, for we are preparing 
for flight. Yesterday we clothed the chairs and 
tables in linen garments, and put cheese-cloth 
trousers on the piano and tables. The curtains 
are down and the rugs rolled up into the garret. 
The house plants, all of which seemed to be in 
a decline, have been sent to the green-house 
to recuperate. And now Philanthropy is kneel- 
ing on the book-case with her mouth full of 
pins, covering the pictures with red tarlatan. 
Her task is nearly completed, and I am glad, 
for I have been so afraid she would sneeze 
during the process and swallow the pins. 

At present she is hiding her great-grand- 
mother’s features from the light of day. I 
have always regretted not having a great-grand- 
father’s portrait to match the great-grand- 
mother’s; it would give a better impression, 
for real, aristocratic ancestors should go in 
pairs. We have our grandfather’s clock, but 
not his picture. One day I was passing an 
auction store, and saw a man holding up before 


an unappreciative audience an elderly gentle- 
man’s portrait wliich resembled my grandfather 
as I remember him; anyway, it was a picture 
of an ancestor one might well be proud of. 
“lyook,” I exclaimed to Philanthropy, who was 
with me, “ Let us go in and buy him to match 
the grandmother.” I still remember, vividly, 
the look Philanthropy gave me. We did not 
buy the old gentleman, and so the old lady 
hangs alone still, and is having two layers of 
tarlatan pinned over her patient face. Philan- 
thropy turns her attention next to a family 
group. This was taken years ago when Prince 
Knowledge and Prince Active were in dresses, 
and Princess Philanthropy wore a round comb 
and pinafore. They are represented seated on 
a grassy terrace, and in the distance one catches 
a glimpse of an imposing castle. I am sure 
the kind artist wanted to convey the flattering 
impression that the children were inmates of 
the castle. In the background there is also a 
fountain and some pieces of statuary. Some 


near-sighted and rather stupid friends have 
taken the statuary for other members of the 
family. Philanthropy has suggested destroying 
this picture, which she says lacks artistic tone, 
but I will not part with it; I gaze at it often 
with tender affection. Those little children 
have disappeared. I cannot remember when I 
first missed them, and though their places are 
filled by a tall maiden and two tall youths, 
yet I love to look at those chubby faces that 
used to nestle so confidingly to 1113' bosom 
years ago. 

Philanthropy also covered a portrait of myself, 
which was executed and presented to me by a 
talented friend. It is a relief to me when it 
is completely hidden from view, for I cannot 
believe it represents me at my best, although 
the family insist that it is a flattering likeness. 
At last the Princess takes the last pin from 
her mouth and descends. 

The next day we bring down the Saratoga, 
preparatory to dropping into its depths the 


wearing apparel of the family. The Saratoga 
is never called into use except when the family 
travel in a body, and are to alight under their 
own roof-tree, so to speak. To take it visiting 
would be madness. The hostess would probably 
die from shock, or, if she survived the first 
glimpse, would live to see her hall gas fixture 
torn out by the roots and her front door 
demolished. 

We always select for the Saratoga’s first 
layer something that can stand considerable 
crushing without injury, and that will not be 
needed at a moment’s notice. I remember 
Active’s camping suit, and arise from my 
kneeling position, where I had been gazing 
reflectively into the trunk’s depths, and go in 
search of the suit. Scarcely is my back 
turned when a shriek pierces the summer air. 
I turn terror-stricken. Nothing visible but 
Tiny’s heels. She has fallen head-first into 
the Saratoga! 

The next day w^e start. Each of the young 


ii8 


princesses takes a doll for a traveling com- 
panion, and we take also the dog, the cat, 
the parrot and the canary. Three men wrestle 
with the Saratoga, but it gets the better of 
them at each round; finally they clinch and 
all roll down the stairs together. No lives 
are lost, and we are so grateful for this infor- 
mation that we ask for no further particulars. 

Just as the round sun is setting, we sail 
out into the calm, beautiful inland sea. The 
sky and waves are alike touched with crimson, 
reflected from the glowing west. ‘ ‘ Another 
hot day for to-morrow,” some one reads aloud 
from an evening paper, but not for us, and 
w^e close our eyes, and the cool air fans our 
heated brows. “Look, mamma, over your 
right shoulder,” Gentleness says. I do as 
she bids and see the new moon hung in the 
summer sky. And so we sail away, and the 
roses fade from the water and from the sky, 
and the stars come out and the young moon 
sends a bright path in front of us, no doubt 


119 

to guide us to that enchanted island in the 
far north for which we sigh, where summer 
mingles with her own beauty the freshness of 
spring and the golden satisfaction of autumn; 
where the trees grow and the flowers blossom 
where God planted them, where the wind comes 
to us freshened from its journey across the 
silvery straits, and perfumed from the fragrant 
pine woods through which it blows all the 
long, golden summer days. 





THE HOUSE ON THE HILL. 


HE House is built on a hill, and up 
the hill we are slowly climbing. At 
the top Princess Philanthropy and 
Prince Knowledge are already standing and 
are waving encouragingly as if to say, “ Behold 
us — be diligent as we were, and some time you 
will stand where we do,” but that some time 
seems a great way off at the present moment, 
for Winningways and I are still discouragingly 
near the foot and our feet have a strange knack 
of slipping backwards. Once when we had made 
some progress and had paused to breathe, the 
child’s hat blew off and we were obliged to 
begin all over again. The other travelers are 
.scattered over the hillside at various points 
between the proud victors and Winningways 
and myself. The windows of the house on 
the hill are boarded up, which makes the dwel- 
ling look like a monster playing blind-man’s 



I2I 


122 


buff with the other houses in the neighhorn^^od. 

All have now reached the top but /i^inning- 
ways and myself. A feeling of despair creeps 
over me. Am I to die in sight of the 
promised land? Just then Active and Gen- 
erosity lean over and each give me a helping 
hand, and I am dragged to the summit and 
sink breathless on the daisy -bedecked sward. 
“If you would only climb differently, mamma,” 
Philanthropy remarks, “ and not double up 
in that manner, you would find it less diffi- 
cult. ” I am unable to reply and gasp on 
in silence. 

It is a perfect June day; the meadows 
wear the livery of early summer and the 
breeze that comes to us is full of promise of 
happy days to come. The waters lie blue 
and shining as far as eye can reach, and 
the white ships sail along calmly and slowly; 
why hasten? The June days are long and 
the summer is in its infancy. Refreshed and 
soothed by the scene I scramble to my feet, 


IlJ 


and the procession moves on. We open the 
rustic gate hung about with wild honeysuckle, 
climb the steps of our dwelling and we are 
at our journey’s end. The Useful Man who 
dwells the year around in the little town 
beneath the hill is already taking the boards 
from the windows, and letting in the sunlight. 
We gaze around the familiar room and are a 
trifle surprised to find things unchanged and 
as we left them months ago. The lovely 
maiden who hangs over the fireplace wears 
the same smile with which she bade us good- 
bye last autumn, — surely she did not smile 
thus through the long dark night of winter; but 
if she has been grieving, she keeps her secret 
well. The crane on the fire-screen is still stand- 
ing artistically on one foot; how unwise of him 
not to have put down the other and rested 
up during our absence; perhaps he did, but 
he declines to enlighten us upon the subject. 
Here are some roses — odorless, colorless — dead, 
long since. Ralph brought them to Mignonne 


last year — I remember the time well — it was 
the last night of the season, chill, and a trifle 
drear. The summer seemed dead. We had 
the Useful Man heap the fireplace with logs, 
and as the flames leaped high and the sparks 
flew up the chimney, we laughed and made 
merry and tried to forget it was the last 
night; but the thought would creep in now 
and then and cast a shadow over our joy. 
We had had such a happy summer and we could 
not bear that it should end. Mignonne 
played for us before we said good-night; I 
don’t know what she played — some weird, 
sweet thing, which suited the time and the 
place. I saw’ Ralph bend over her and ask 
her to keep the roses he had given her and 
and which she wore in her bosom. I fancy 
she promised to do so, for he looked happy 
when he said good- night, and here the poor 
flowers lie, dead and forgotten. Ah, well ! 
no doubt Ralph will bring her more roses 
this summer. A shriek of delight from 


125 

Winningways attracts me. She has discovered 
her doll in the corner where she had been 
meekly sitting for nearly a year, awaiting her 
tender little mother’s coming. Winningways 
clasps her battered favorite to her heart, but 
the favorite does not return the caress, and 
her countenance wears a dull vacant expression. 
No doubt the cruel cold and the long night 
were more than her feeble intellect could 
withstand. But Winningways sees nothing 
amiss, so all is well. 

We spend a busy day. The Useful Man 
is everywhere and does wonders. Princess 
Philanthropy and I sweep and dust, and 
scrub and rub. We hang the white curtains 
in the low, broad windows, and put fresh 
dresses on the couches and pillows. Knowledge 
and Active put up the hammocks on the 
porches and under the trees. Generosity and 
the younger members of the family are sent 
hither and thither for ferns, clover blossoms, 
buttercups and daisies. Uater in the season 


126 


Princess Philanthropy hopes to have rarer 
flowers, but at present we are content with 
these humble blossoms, which the wild winds 
have sown, and which spring up over the 
meadows and hillsides to make beautiful the 
earth against our coming. 

As the day grows late we find our tasks finished, 
and we sit down to rest and enjoy the fruits 
of our labor. Through the west window we 
see the solemn pine woods, stirring gently in 
the summer breeze; now and then we catch 
the note of some bird, who finds himself well 
nigh companionless in this far northern spot. 
Before us, as in the morning, lie the placid 
waters, but the setting sun has turned artist, 
and the ships sail on a crimson sea. As the 
the sun sinks out of sight, frohi the old fort 
booms the sunset gun. Our first day is over. 
God grant us many more as bright and as full 
of peace. Winningway s is nearly asleep in 
the hammock, hugging her disabled pet. Prin- 
cess Philanthropy has covered her pretty head. 


127 


lest the bats which are sailing around should 
tangle their feet in her bright locks. The 
twilight is closing in. Reluctantly I leave the 
peaceful scene and go indoors to light the 
lamps; ere I do so I glance out of my dear 
west window. It is already deep night in the 
solemn pine woods. 


1 






“ ' A 




•'i 


* i ^ 




, k 


4 Pv « 










f ' ^ 




»-T :-. jwT - v-.^- 

r- >• ■. «- 1 ^ '.»H . i . 1 _ 


/ • 


-S, 










c r'* ^ 

► . L • ■ ^1 ^ ; f 

i’’' 'ws- "'*= '“^ 


. 1 / -'■;- .-J%' .- - ' '^ - 

^ 


•» »* *''»^^ ^ i > f. ^ 


L-’iJf':''' V:?--’'.-— .^;ps 

^iS^^:;;.^.:-Ju*‘>' ' •i-'W % 


* t 

A 


I 


• ., ■*jr * ■ . 

' r ' r. *>* /. ^ 

'•'• w ■ ■ ./- '^ tii‘- o M iK3?^‘^ x * ■ ';^'T -.v . r-., ,<z*^ ■^v -- ^ 

IL#’ iT i ' ^ r» ■ * • • • ,. •4 » ^ # ..* 

hi' V ■• ' "f^'-’-' v'Citst.- <>•»■ ’■ 5?i;^Vil ^^ ';‘ij 

B -i' ' ^ -.Jig ■•^- ■■■>;'-~'.i-<;f--*\^ . ■« 

t; ^ ■ 

I^.'f* •,J>^ .:Xf^ ■ . ^ 







' ' '-2 


iA'?: ‘'ti*'"'""' 

t ^ 


- » 

c 


r ; . j 




= ♦ i 




v- * •* 
.» 

f • 








% « 


1 > . . ' ’ *■ -*“«•' 


■i •- 


f > •{ ez. * •• ’*■ » * " 

'^ ■ j - • *» » < * — 


2l' 

* 1 - / 

P 4i 


«? ^ ' 








‘ kRM 





J ft» # 

- , ,r*.r€; i5^ 

r»_ ^ • 4 ' 1 ^ *..' • • 


* w« 

Wl 


V- « 


V 


f, 


X! 


'w';. 


k * 




*■ « 


.V 


. o ■■*,., y.;» «#{^' 


*? 


..... .1 . '* 

* * Vi ’ ’■■ ' ' ? 

•- ’•.•.• ^ .-.L« 


'Tii 





i. .*»V ■','“ . ■' 'A- .B^^¥:. ■''e.\.Ayfti ■ 


^ J- slwS 





IMOGENE’S PICNIC. 


HERE is a little white cottage down 
the lane with a white fence around 
it, and two huge lilac bushes grow- 
ing in front; the bushes are so near the house 
that one gets the impression a little way off 
that they have been planted indoors and are 
growing out of the windows. This cottage 
Iinogene’s mother has taken for the season, 
and Imogene dwells therein. Hither she has 
brought her dainty wardrobe, her favorite rugs, 
her writing desk, her books, some tiny pic- 
tures and many more of her pretty belongings. 
Between the lilac bushes she had hung a 
golden-colored hammock, and there, half hidden 
among the blue silk pillows, my lady swings 
many hours of the long summer days. In the 
evening she walks up the lane to see us; and 
our rich neighbor who lives in the green house 
(and was rather inclined to look down on us a 



129 


trifle, when she saw we were on such friendly 
terms with Imogene, became quite gracious, 
and handed me a bunch of poppies over the 
fence yesterday. 

One day, not long ago, Imogene grew tired 
of swinging and raised herself upon her elbow 
and pondered. Then she put one dainty foot 
among the lilacs, then the other, and sprang 
lightly to the ground; then she walked briskly 
down the village street. She walked as one 
walks who has a purpose in view; hers was no 
constitutional, neither was it an idle saunter. 
When she returned and climbed into the ham- 
mock, she had the air of one who had accom- 
plished her purpose. “Yes,” she said to herself 
as she swung to and fro, ‘ ‘ The Thistledown 
is engaged, the luncheon ordered, and the 
guests invited.” 

While Imogene had been swinging in her 
hammock among the lilacs, she had caught a 
glimpse of a tiny speck of land, miles and miles 
away, and one evening after a storm, a rain- 


bow had sprung up from that very spot, and 
the other end had reached over nearly to Imo- 
gene’s hammock. “What fun it would be,” 
thought Imogene, “to sail over to that fair 
spot in the Thistledown, eat luncheon on the 
shore, and then sail home in the golden sun- 
set time.” 

And so it came to pass that on a fair sum- 
mer morning, Imogene and Ralph and Mignonne 
and Philanthropy and Knowledge, and many 
others, v^aved adieux to me as I stood rather 
disconsolately on the pier, and the Thistledown’s 
sails filled, and the waves danced and sparkled 
and they sailed away, bound for the far-off 
place where the rainbow sprung from. I watched 
them as long as I could catch a glimpse of 
the white sails, then began to count the hours 
until the sunset time should bring them back 
to me. Alas for our well-laid plans. In the 
afternoon, and while the sun was yet high in 
the heavens, a gray fog settled over the world 
and wiped the waters from our view as if 


132 


they had never been. As the day grew later 
the fog grew denser — more clinging, and hung 
before our faces like a pall. Not a breath 
stirred, and the pines, like huge ghosts, lifted 
their gray arms to Heaven, as if in suppli- 
cation for the sunless world. The steamers, 
invisible, but telling of their presence by their 
dismal bells of warning, crept timidly up and 
down the straits. Where, oh where were the 
happy sailors who started off so joyously in 
the bright morning? How could they find 
their way home in this breathless calm — 
through this cruel, impenetrable mist? We 
stood on the shore and watched for some 
shadow that might prove to be the Thistle- 
down. We shouted aloud, but were answered 
by the echo of our own voices. At last the 
gray mist darkened and became black. Night 
was upon us, and yet the Thistledown sailed 
not into port. All through the night we watched 
and waited; was there ever a night so long 
or so full of fears? How we hailed with 


133 


delight the first faint streaks of dawn, but 
there was no white sail visible to our anxious 
eyes. Imogene and her young friends came, 
not with the new day. As the light grew 
stronger, away off on the horizon line we caught 
a glimpse of a tiny white speck. Certainly 
the speck grew larger. God grant it might 
be the sail for which we waited. We brush 
away the tears that we might see the clearer. 
Suppose it was some other craft, what then ? 
Could we still manage to hope, and believe 
that all was well? A fresh breeze sprang up 
and rippled the blue waters, the ship in the 
distance increased its speed, and soon, oh joy 
inexpressible! all doubt vanished; it was the 
Thistledown bounding toward us with its precious 
cargo. 

The picnic party looked a trifle travel-worn 
as they came ashore to be kissed and wept 
over by the anxious watchers. ‘ ‘ Did you expect 
us to sail without wind, and through the dis- 
mal fog, mamma dear?” Philanthropy asks, as 


134 

she fondly dries my tear-stained countenance. 
I make no audible reply, but down in my 
heart I say, “God be praised that Imogene’s 
picnic is over.” 

And now my lady swings in her golden 
hammock among her silk pillows hung high 
in the lilacs, and is content to gaze from afar 
at the distant speck of land where the rain- 
bow sprung from. 


LIZA. 



T IS midsummer. The season has 
reached its prime. The days are 
long, bright and still, the waters are 
as calm as if the sea was glass, and reflect the 
blue sky with the exactness of a mirror. Nature 
is taking a breathing spell ere she makes ready 
for the harvest. Karly this morning we started 
off on a little steamer to this island — St. Helena 
they call it — and though it threatens danger to 
the passing ships, lying as it does in their path- 
way up the lakes, to us it is a peaceful haven. 
I have promised to read a story to the young 
people and they gather around under the trees, 
but near enough to the waters to feel the cool 
breeze, and I begin my task. 

Her name was Tiza, and she was one of a 
numerous family; her mother was a slave, and 
Liza knew nothing of freedom, save what the 
birds and wild flowers may have taught her. 




136 

When her rich master died, his slaves were 
divided according to the law of the land, among 
his children, and it fell to little lyiza’s lot to 
be given to a son who had left home early 
in life, and had settled in a large city. And 
so the little girl was torn from her mother and 
from her young companions, who, like herself, 
were content in bondage; from the hills, the 
valleys, the deep shady woods; from the little 
cabin she loved, and which was the only home 
she had ever known. 

This child, although her skin was dark, had 
a soul made in the image and likeness of God; 
she could feel keenly both joy and sorrow, and 
in her new home she was sad of heart. She 
missed the things she had loved and had been 
ruthlessly parted from forever. She would sit 
in the kitchen doorway after her daily tasks 
were finished, and the great tears would flow 
unchecked down her dusky cheeks, tears which 
welled up from her homesick little soul. One 
evening when poor lyiza was feeling more lonely 


^37 

even than usual, a little child, her new master’s 
first born, escaped from its nurse and toddled 
over to where she was sitting. The child 
gazed with pity into the dark, tear-filled eyes 
of the little slave. “Baby loves you, don’t 
cry,” she lisped. And straightway Tiza opened 
her arms, caught up the child and held it close 
against her poor aching heart. Tove had accom- 
plished another miracle. Poor Tiza forgot her 
sorrow and was made happy by a baby’s kiss. 

After that day the friendship between those 
two grew apace, and soon it was discovered 
that the child was never so good, or so happy, 
as when with the little colored girl. They 
would walk hand in hand over the meadow, 
and the little country girl would point out to 
her young charge the countless treasures with 
which she was familiar. Tiza always knew 
where to look for the four-leaf clovers, and 
the butterflies and dragon-flies seemed to come 
at her call. Then they would sit together in 
in the summer twilight, the golden head nestled 


close to the black, wooly one, and Liza would 
build wonderful air castles for the child’s 
amusement. The baby was always to be a 
beautiful princess, and Liza always her happy 
slave. To this child, young tyrant though 
she was, Liza gave her whole heart, mighty 
in its capacity for love. Gradually the slave 
mother, and the young slave companions, and 
the little cabin faded from her memory, and 
became as a half forgotten dream, and her 
affection, concentrated, intensified, and was be- 
stowed upon her little charge; for finally, her 
fidelity and capability being evident, she was 
given entire care of the child. Those were 
happy days for the slave girl — the only ones 
she was ever to know, and they were happy 
days for Little Lady — this was Liza’s pet name 
for her— for she was sheltered and protected by 
a love which was free from alloy. 

Early each morning Liza would take the 
child from the crib and carry her into the 
nursery. No royal princess’ toilet was ever 


>39 

accomplished with more care than was Little 
Lady’s, so lovingly was each yellow curl brushed 
over Liza’s dark finger, and she would soothe 
and entertain the child meanwhile with infinite 
tenderness and affection. And when the baby 
was made as fair to see as loving skill could 
make her, then Liza would kneel and gaze in 
silent admiration into the chubby face. Little 
Lady was, no doubt, as commonplace as most 
babies, but Liza’s love glorified and trans- 
formed her into a being of perfect grace and 
beauty. 

Two years passed thus, and then it was 
noticed that the little slave girl was growing 
thinner, and the great black eyes were growing 
brighter and brighter. “ Little Lady,” she 
said one day, “poah Liza can’t tote you no 
moh, she done los’ her bref.” This was a 
great deprivation to the patient slave, not to 
be able to carry the great healthy girl, who 
weighed nearly as much as she did, up and 
down the stairs. 


140 


But much was left them yet; they could stroll 
up and down the garden paths, and Liza could 
tell the wonderful stories that Little Lady loved 
to hear. 

It soon became apparent to even the most casual 
observer that Liza was failing, and so a phy- 
sician was sent for. He put his wise ear against 
her hollow chest and shook his head; nothing 
could be done for her, it was merely a matter of 
time. Her master would not lose much, for 
she never could have grown into a robust woman, 
and in this work-a-day world the weakly are apt 
to be in the way, and so it was settled that little 
Liza must die. In the meantime, the child 
whom she worshipped must be kept away from 
her; someone else must care for the baby. 
This someone else was, no doubt, wiser than 
Liza and good enough in her way, but Little 
Lady missed sorely the limitless love, and 
boundless patience of her dusky little playmate. 
And poor Liza ! When her little charge was 
taken from her, she no longer tried to hide 


her weakness, but took to her bed, where she 
lay day after day, racked with pain, consumed 
with fever, her arms empty, the baby gone. 
But when those around her explained to her 
that it was best for the child that they should 
be separated, she made no complaint, but the 
great tears fell silently on her little pillow. 

She knew she was going to die. The doctor 
did not think it worth his while to disguise 
his meaning, nor did those about her, while 
they were kind enough, take her feelings ser- 
iously into consideration. The fact that she 
must die was calmly accepted. Once every day 
lyittle Lady was brought in to see her, not so 
much for Ibiza’s sake, as because the little girl 
herself insisted upon it. ‘ ‘ Take me to see my 
own lyiza,” she would cry, and so they would 
take her to the bedside, and she would pat 
lovingly the poor sunken cheeks with her soft 
baby hand. And L,iza would gaze into the rosy 
face with the same admiration, and run her 
thin fingers through the golden curls with the 


142 


tenderness of yore. So there was some bright- 
ness yet in poor Ibiza’s dark days. 

It was autumn, and the dreary rain and the 
falling leaves added to the little invalid’s sorrow. 
They sharpened the contrast between the sad 
present and the summer days which were dead. 
Oh ! if those happy days could come back again, 
when Liza and Little Lady sat beneath the trees 
and watched the ants build their tiny houses; 
or when they gathered the early spring flowers 
and made daisy chains to hang about their 
necks. But those days are gone forever. Poor 
Liza would listen to the falling rain and the 
baby’s voice crying in the distant room, and 
she would wonder in her ignorant fashion, as 
wiser heads than hers have wondered, why 
such innocent joys might not have lasted, and 
why such bitter sorrow should have come into 
her life. 

Liza was very anxious to live until Christmas. 
She dared not ask those about her how many 
days might yet be hers, for fear they would. 


143 

shatter this, her last hope. “ If I could live 
’ til Christmas, ’ ’ she would say during the long 
dark hours of the night, “I’d go willin’. Please 
Lawd, let I<iza stay on dis heah arth ’til Christ- 
mas; I wants to spen’ that money for I^ittle 
Lady ; she done set her heart on dat basket ; let 
Liza give it to her for a shore nuff presen’ , den 
Lawd, I’s willin’ to go.” 

Once in the happy days when Liza was well, 
during their wanderings she had lifted the Little 
Lady up to gaze into a shop window. The 
child espied a china basket which she admired 
greatly, whereupon Liza conceived the stupend- 
ous idea of giving it to her for a “shore nuff 
Christmas presen’ . ” So she saved her occasional 
pennies with a miser’s greed; nothing could tempt 
her to spend one, lest the extravagance should 
postpone the purchase, and now was Death to 
rob her of this, her last pleasure? Poor little 
Liza ! How often she had pictured it all to her- 
self: the dusk of the Christmas morn; Little 
Lady carried down to see the wonderful things 


144 


Santa Claus had left for her; then the gifts for 
grandma, papa, mamma, aunts and uncles. 
When all these had been seen and admired, 
then would come Ibiza’s turn. She would take 
the child over to some quiet corner and show 
her the wonderful basket, and then tell her it 
was for her, from I^iza, bought with Ibiza’s 
own money. How the child would stare with 
pleasure and surprise ! And then, no doubt, 
she would throw her arms around the slave’s 
neck and kiss her. That would more than repay 
Liza, for love like unto hers asks merely for the 
privilege to love. “Doan’t take me befoe 
Christmas, deah Tawd,” such was her constant 
prayer. 

But one dreary morning found her so weak, 
that it was evident to those about her that she 
could live but a few hours, and Christmas was 
several weeks off yet. She seemed to realize 
this somewhat herself, and she asked if she were 
dying. “You are very ill, Tiza,” her nurse 
replied. “Can’t I live to Christmas, no how?’’ 


She read the answer in the nurse’s face, She 
was silent for awhile, then she said faintly : 
“Send for my Little Lady.” So the child was 
brought to look for the last time into the sad 
eyes, which, even when dimmed by the shadow 
of death, still beamed upon her with a deathless 
love. 

The little colored girl drew from beneath her 
pillow a shabby purse. “ Deah Little Lady,” 
she said, so faintly that the child bent lower to 
catch the words, “ dis is the money I done saved 
up foe yoah Christmas gif’, but poah Liza won’t be 
heah den, so you must buy dat china basket 
yoah own self to ’member poah Liza. Good 
bye, honey, an’ doan’t forget I done love you 
a heap.” 

The baby’s lips were pressed on the dark 
cheek, and at the touch the poor slave’s heart 
gave one throb of joy, and was then stilled for- 
ever. 

When I have finished there is a silence for 
awhile. Away up in this free land it is diffi- 


146 

cult for us to believe that beings with souls 
were bought and sold, once upon a time, in this, 
our country, that makes liberty its boast. “Poor 
little lyiza,” some one says sadly, and then my 
listeners scatter, too gay and happy to be sad- 
dened long over the story of a little slave who 
died years ago. I am left alone with Winning- 
ways. 


THE SUMMER IS OVER. 


RINCKSS Philanthropy is out in her 
flower garden, gathering her last 
blossoms, for the summer is over, 
and Philanthropy could not leave her flowers 
to die neglected and alone. ‘ ‘ I will give them 
to the Useful Man’s wife,” she said, as she 
started out with her garden basket and scissors. 
The hills and the meadows are still dressed in 
gold and white, but the buttercups and daisies 
have given place to the stately goldenrod and 
pale immortelles. The children have bidden 
adieu to their favorite haunts. They have 
taken down the swings and hammocks, and 
their little faces are pensive this Autumn morn- 
ing as is Nature’s. The day is bright, but 
there is something sad in the air and in our 
hearts, for the sweet summer is dead. 

I go to the west window to take a last, long 
look at the pine woods. The sunshine sifts 



147 


148 


through their branches like gold dust, and they 
are wrapped in a golden haze. They have noth- 
ing to fear from Autumn, for they will not 
kindle at her touch, and even the winter does 
but cover their green branches with her ermine. 
I bid them a silent farewell and turn away. 
“Come, Philanthropy,” I call, “the red wagon 
is coming up the hill for our trunks,” and she 
enters, bringing with her great bunches of 
sweet peas, nasturtians, and rainbow -hued 
chrysanthemums. It will be hard for the Use- 
ful Man’s wife to believe the summer is over 
when she receives these. We start down the 
hill; the red wagon heads the procession. The 
same hill we climbed that bright June morning 
when the summer was before us. We pass the 
house in the lane, but Imogene no longer swings 
in her golden hammock, and the lilacs nod sol- 
emnly at us as we go by. We walk through 
the little town, which is already settling down 
for its long winter’s nap. The inhabitants stand 
in their doorways and curtesy at us as we pass. 


149 

The shopkeepers smile at us beseechingly, but 
we cannot be beguiled into making a last pur- 
chase. We may not tarry, for the ship stands 
ready to bear us away. On the pier are Ralph 
and Mignonne; they will linger still longer and 
make believe it is yet summer time. Generosity 
throws them a bunch of immortelles, as deathless 
as is true love. The Useful Man looks at us regret- 
fully and now and then wipes his eyes; but 
whether the tears spring from grief or the sun’s 
rays it is hard to say. On his weather-beaten 
coat he wears a spray of goldenrod, which Beauty 
gave him; he turns away sadly, and the little 
red wagon rattles up the hill for the last time. 
Winningways lifts her doll, which she has not 
forgotten this time, over the boat railing, so 
that it may have an unobstructed view of the 
people on the pier, but the doll does not appre- 
ciate any effort to cheer her up, and still wears 
the same vacant expression that last winter’s 
neglect spread over her countenance. 

The bell rings, the shrill whistle pierces the 


150 

autumn air and we are off. We give a farewell 
glance to the house on the hill. Already the 
Useful Man is covering the windows and night 
has settled down where the sunlight shone an 
hour before. The girl over the fireplace has, 
perhaps, ceased to smile, and the crane, sheltered 
by the darkness, has probably put down his 
other foot. We wave them adieu though they 
cannot see us. We bid them be hopeful though 
they cannot hear us. 

“Good bye, good bye,” we shout to those on 
the pier as the boat glides away. ‘ ‘ God bless 
you all, and keep you safe until we meet again. ’’ 


THANKSGIVING. 

0-DAY is Thanksgiving. The snow 
covers the earth and the wind howls 
as if it were midwinter. We look 
out through the misty windows and see the 
people hurrying through the streets, muffled 
to the eyes; but indoors all is brighter by con- 
trast with the dreariness without. The flames 
dance on the hearth, and the roses which 
Imogene brought us this morning fill the room 
with a fragrance that belongs not to winter. 

Mignonne sits at the piano and softly plays 
an old-fashioned melody which is fitting for 
this old-fashioned holiday. And Aunt and 
Uncle Pollycarp, and Ralph and Clementina, 
and all of our dearest friends have come to eat 
with us our Thanksgiving dinner. ‘Tt promises 
to be a bitter winter,” Imogene says to Phil- 
anthropy, “we must be up and doing. Our 
Club meets next week, but I fear we have not 
151 



152 

tnucli to commence with.” ”We have Some 
red flannel,” Philanthropy answers, and then, 
seeing me smile, the girls draw their chairs 
together and the conversation is continued in 
a low tone. 

Uncle Pollycarp gazes silently into the fire; 
then he says, half sadly, ” How different this 
is from the Thanksgivings years ago in the 
old home. Roses bloomed there until Christ- 
mas, and the meadows were clad in green the 
year round; I dread the long winter before us,” 
and as he speaks he draws nearer the cheerful 
blaze. “Ah!” says Clementina, “how sweet 
the spring is after the winter; those who live 
where summer reigns the year round miss the 
joy of the changing seasons.” But Uncle 
Pollycarp gazes out into the snow- hidden streets, 
shivers slightly and is silent. “I wonder how 
the house on the hill looks such a day as this,” 
Knowledge remarks, and as he speaks before 
my mind rises a picture of a dwelling blind- 
folded, half buried in snow drifts, guarded by 


>53 

huge pine trees, which wave and toss their 
ermine-clad branches in the bitter winter wind. 
In the little town under the hill the Useful 
Man sits gazing out at the ice-clad strait, 
longing for the spring. The picture fades and 
I see the children dancing joyously around the 
room with perpetual summer in their little hearts. 
Winningways carries a new doll in her arms; 
her old favorite succumbed to some brain 
trouble in spite of change of scene and care- 
ful nursing, and after a few downcast days the 
little mother transferred her affections to her 
new darling, which, I am happy to say, seems 
to have a robust constitution. 

Mignonne plays softly “Home, Sweet Home;’’ 
the children join in, singing at the top of 
their sweet, childish voices. Uncle Pollycarp 
arouses himself from his dreams of the past, 
and the old home with its long summers, is, 
for the time being at least, forgotten. Out- 
side the snow continues to fall, and the wind 
tries to get in at the windows and down the 


154 

chimney. We draw the curtains and light 
the lamps and forget the outer world. We 
must be happy and thankful on this festival 
which comes in the dreariest time of the year, 
and stands out the brighter for its dull setting. 

lyater, when we gather around the table — 
an unbroken circle, thank God — Uncle Polly- 
carp bows his head and says softly, ‘‘For 
these and all Thy blessings. Heavenly Father, 
we thank Thee.” And from the bottom of 
our grateful hearts we say “Amen.’’ 


CHRISTMAS EVE. 



T is Christmas Eve, and I am on the 
top of a step ladder in the cedar 
closet, looking for the children’s 
stockings. Is it possible that a whole year has 
passed since I rolled them in camphor and put 
them on the upper shelf, which I find much 
difficulty in reaching at the present moment. 
It seems but as yesterday; I remember I sighed 
as I put them away, for one never knows what 
a year may bring forth. Why do these joyous 
festivals have always running through their mirth 
a minor strain, as indeed have all the pleasures 
we enjoy in this fickle old world of ours?. 
As I make these remarks mentally, the step- 
ladder creaks and shivers ominously. I grasp 
the closet door in terror, but nothing happens, 
and when my confidence is somewhat restored, 
I make a wild clutch at the upper shelf, secure 
the stockings and warily descend. 


155 


1^6 

l^hese stockings, which I proceed to fasten 
to the clothesline which stretched across the 
fireplace, are no every-day affairs, or outgrown 
finery. They were built expressly for Santa 
Claus’ generous purposes — wide of calf, broad 
of toe, hung around with silver bells, the 
names of the owner upon each to avoid all 
misunderstandings with regard to proprietorship. 

They are almost painfully realistic in their 
proportions. Those belonging to the older 
ones are as long as the rent roll of a wealthy 
landlord, and they gradually shrink along the 
line, at the end of which Princess Winning- 
ways tiny affair dangles. 

The owners of the stockings are absent. 
The longer ones, so to speak, are at an evening 
party; the shorter ones are asleep. So I gather 
together all the good things, and all the pre- 
cious things which have been hidden away 
for many days, and proceed to give to each 
what belongs to each. A happy task! And, 
as I work, there comes before my mind a 


157 

vision of the children’s joy and surprise when 
to-morrow dawns. A happy task! And yet I 
find Prince Knowledge and Princess Philan- 
thropy’s legs discouragingly long. I seem to 
make little headway, although my supply is 
visibly diminished; and in a narrow-minded 
moment, I drop into the lank depths two huge 
apples which stop midway in their descent, 
and thus form a new foundation upon which 
I build rapidly. I toil on until all the limbs 
assume aldermanic proportions, and groan audi- 
bly under their weight of good things. The 
rope sags threateningly at one end, and at 
the other poor Winningway’ s stocking kicks 
the beam. 

My task is finished. I give the fire a few 
stimulating pokes, shake up the pine pillow 
(which brings back the breath of a dead sum- 
mer) on my favorite rocker, and sit down to 
reflect. I am alone, and after all is said and 
done, solitude has its charms. One needs time 
to take stock, as it were — to lay in more 


patience, if we find we are running low in that 
commodity; to see that we have courage and 
fortitude in reserve, for we may have unex- 
pected calls upon these virtues; to rest the tired 
nerves, lest we say, because of them, some hasty 
word which can never be unsaid, though we 
should weep oceans of regretful tears. We can 
be together such a few years at best. Time 
brings about cruel changes, and oftentimes puts 
the seas between hearts that love. What if 
some Christmas Eve should find my chimney 
stockingless and desolate, the dear feet wan- 
dering over the wide, wide world? Perish 
the thought! I have them yet with me; how 
happy I should be. And I arise, and in a 
contrite spirit push the apples down to the 
heels in Philanthropy’s and Knowledge’s stock- 
ings, though the walls bulge and threaten to 
fly asunder, and I fill the vacuum caused by 
my heroic action with the reserve stock. 

In the church across the street the children 
are practicing the Christmas hymns. I go to 


159 


the window and gaze out into the night. The 
world is silent and chill and the stars look a 
great way off. “We hold our treasures by 
such a slender cord, and Heaven is so far 
away,” I say sadly. Just then a wave of 
melody reaches me; children’s voices, sweet 
and clear, blended with the organ’s tone, “Glory 
to God in the Highest, and on Earth Peace 
to Men of Good Will.” 

I listen until the last note dies away on the 
winter air, and something of the peace they 
sing of touches my soul. I am content to 
leave all things with Him, who, on this night, 
was born in a manger in far-off Bethlehem, 
for the love of us. 

Princess Philanthropy’s step is on the stair; 
she has returned from the feast. She must 
not find Santa Claus awake, so 1 turn down 
the gas and flee. 


FINIS. 






Z5iR? 


B?-.’ 4lm*^''^^'>- 

« * m .*,\. ‘ •' 



4 1' - Wi a/ ■- • -JT**., < • ■ * m 

t'- "v-'5 t-.- ' ' 

^ ' . I * 'V Ql ik '* . ■•.••» 

^ ^ «%L« /• • * * *.*'• ^.» ^ I 

■-»- • ;r-v. • V - -t ^ ’ **' 

1L' / Kp-' • ♦ -' .^Y» r ■% •-» • ^ ^atffk ^ *^Kj 

K .,7;^- *' •* /"K ‘x€*t 

^ - ■ -^C^'*' • - '^♦' * . ■ ^** : :■ »^. . <■ ' • .^ .. . - .rjat: 




Vf, 


t 


?'' ‘%r^tf,’ 'lijK' '• • -'-»- 


i?# '* 






^ ' .4 

=• •K?^’ V. ^ 




lii • ' 




' _ *iA ^ j j 



■ ■’■ ir^-- ‘i’ "'" y"-’-^'“ '!'-'^''' 4 

' • .A'l. ■ • ui '* « 'VC 1 ".jit'- ■; ' : ■ 'sv.*--; i * ■ ■ -■ - ■^'m.1 . 41 

, ' * ^ ""'^ ...-y.-.i . ,. i ?* '■-■ --^ "> :v 

' ' a;' •' '. '■'’• ■ V’' ' 


I 




? 'A > -« ! A. ■^^V- . '• ' *-*5*":- A’ - • ■• ' 

■r^ . * *■ t ^ ‘ • f ■ L ^ ^ ^ *«• ^i. .^ _ I 3in 


t r^* . ■ *. '€^' 







'^4“ 


• lAa '-’'^ * 1 t 

,1 ■ ■. f '• •; 

•■ . iTT^’.* 1* •“ VA*. ;*“* 

K V ■ V w-v*4ia 












4 - 


’> ■' . 


. ^ 
* ' ^ 
^-■>- 



i- 


. r>“ . tf 


• : • 


'■ ^ 

1 ^ ■ ■ ^ ^ 


’\m 




:v-..^ ,-K. .V^-^‘< 


r: 

. V « 

. •v • 


.■ ■ % 

. A • .• 






4 _ 

. f 


■>, 'oV- 


‘ •••O'. Vl^'*- 


a^* ■ '' 


' f 


' ^ 




•• ,- 4 ^ 
V* . 


•V.- •'•• "• ' -.«• v ^ ' *■ 

*■ - . > ..• ■ ‘i..r--‘'J. ‘ ’■• 

' ^ ‘-r* 'r;: . 


• N ^ . •' 






•i • 

« 

i ^ 




-y 


.V* . 


A 

< w 




4 

I 


1 . 


,4 
. 4 


•4 ' 


•• m' V 


. .V, "•: -■ ” ■- 

'r!v ■ •'' ' "• 


ry 


t • ■ • 

4 

r 







VI 


v- 


(ZI . 

•. 4 


k 



•i 





• • •» - i - 


» t 


r>_ ■ - ^ 



*# /< ;< 


•' V- 



r *m 

r _ 

'■ ^ -v^; 

■:* ^ •>**. X.^* ' * 


S -• .V'V^ 

^v--l'<ir 





- -v 




t - 


** ♦- r^ 



^ '' 


• 


i.f 


1 


'Jk^i 


- '-i' , -• J|-^ 




W 


A 




• 4 


• . 


< 


• »■■ 


I . 


tta^i ■■.,^- .' ’ /, t •• 

^sCWC u aB? * V* ~ 



•b 



7 • 






't*r' 


» .it* 


f 




\.l 




* ■; 













. i| 

:■ 


* A 



1.' 


^ ‘ - A ^ 

;=.'?»> i;'8T,^ 

r ■ 






5 


■'^e l 





• * ^ ' 4 ■ T ^ 

• 7'fi* ^ 


:• V 


^ ♦ 


^ ,. - . • ' >V i ^ ^ ;. 


i-t 


• • . - ‘ -r 
> j * ’ i *. 




V^ f '" 


> . 


ni-'V " 


•? 


A ^htl. W 


.{fl'Vi'''.' 


\ , 




> V - > 


' . V''f* ^7f^'>'s ri,/ 

.j- .M':- -•?♦ S ^ 






